


Through a Slender Opening

by JKL_FFF



Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012), Parapines - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Coffee, Death, Depression, Dreams, F/M, Ghosts, Goths, Guns, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Parapines, Pining, Possession, Prophetic Dreams, References to Depression, Shooting Guns, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 21:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 364,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKL_FFF/pseuds/JKL_FFF
Summary: A tragic accident makes Dipper and Mabel into orphans, Gruncle Stan into their sole guardian, and Gravity Falls into their permanent home. To cope with the grief, Mabel experiments with going goth (inadvertently upsetting the social order of the local high school) while Dipper seeks out a new investigation to lose himself in (and rumor has it there's another new kid in town with supernatural abilities).Meanwhile, thanks to a different tragedy (and a crappy economy), Norman finds himself once again a shy loner with no friends who aren't Ghosts. Fortunately, a long-dead comedian makes it his death's mission to bring laughter into Norman's life again.And then, an eldritch entity shrouds the town in a chilling fog and begins abducting children. Can the three kids (and one Ghost) band together to stop it before time runs out?… Or will they become its next victims?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The shipping aspect of this is fairly minimal--mostly Norman developing a one-sided crush on Dipper Pines, who is hopelessly oblivious. Just so no one gets into this solely for the ship, only to be disappointed that it doesn't develop into anything explicit.

Some of the best stories start with a tragedy, like some of the greatest gains come after a loss. Sometimes, it is only after suffering crushing loneliness that one can truly see one is not alone.

****

The Pines family will never forget what they were doing that morning on the twenty-fifth of July. That was when the call came. No one ever forgets the moment when life-changing news is delivered.

Mabel was polishing the case of the mummified mermaid. “Were you an _actual_ mermaid once?” she wondered to herself. “Did you look anything like Mermando? Oh, _Mermando_ . . . _Le_ _sigh_ . . .”

Dipper was meticulously sweeping the floor, being careful to clear out the corners and to sweep under the displays. “Why is there always twice as much dust under the Canopic Jar of Seth?”

Stan was recounting the day’s profits up to that point (ten twenty-three in the morning). “President Jackson, you are a _very _handsome man, but not as handsome as your friend Ulysses Grant over here! _Rowr_, President Grant . . . Give us a kiss, then. Oh, you _tease_, you!”

Obviously, it had been a very good morning so far. And then the phone rang.

“Mystery Shack,” Stan answered. “The truth isn’t out _there_; it’s in _here_.”

“Am I speaking with Stanford Pines?”

“Who’s asking? _Please_?” he added grudgingly.

“Officer Greg Johnson of the Piedmont Police Department. I’m sorry to inform you, sir, but . . . There’s been an accident. A car accident . . . A two-_fatality_ car accident.”

Suddenly numb, Stan could only murmur, “You don’t . . . _No_ . . .”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Your nephew is . . . and his wife, too . . . I’m afraid they were both D.O.A. Apart from their two children, you are the only living relative on file. We thought you should know.”

“The kids . . . _How_ am I gonna tell the kids?” Stan murmured throatily.

“Tell them?” Officer Greg Johnson repeated urgently. “Sir, are their two children with you now? We’ve been trying to locate them all morning.”

“Yeah, they’re with me . . . I gotta go now . . . I gotta tell them . . .” Stan said distractedly before he hung up. Turning, he looked at his great-niece and great-nephew—now his only living relatives.

“Gruncle Stan?” Dipper asked worriedly. “Something wrong?”

“Where’s that smile?” Mabel larked, twirling over to poke Stan’s belly. “Beep boop bop!”

Kneeling down, Stan put his arms around her. “Mabel Syrup . . . I . . . Y-you need to know . . .”

“Gruncle Stan?” Dipper repeated, more worried than before. His great-uncle was crying, and Dipper had never seen his great-uncle cry before . . .

****

The funeral was two days later.

Mabel wore a plain, black sweater. Nothing fancy—no patterns, no embroidery, and no pictures. Just black. She could normally knit a new sweater from scratch in under a day, but almost didn’t finish this one. Grief was a powerful distraction; she couldn’t even look at the yarn without finding new tears.

From somewhere in a closet, Dipper managed to locate a pair of pants and a long-sleeved shirt that were black. They looked strange on him, and felt even stranger to him—as if they were another’s. He wore his bowtie with them, but left his favorite hat at the Mystery Shack. It wasn’t a time for hats.

Though it was a constant joke that the years had not been kind to Stan, the days leading up to the funeral seemed to have aged him a decade. A lean and haggard decade. He had preceded the kids, leaving Gravity Falls the day of the accident—the day of the deaths—to put everything in order, for a will had been written. It named him the executor of the Pines estate (with Dipper and Mabel being the sole beneficiaries) and ordered that all assets (save family heirlooms, keepsakes, and personal property of the kids) be liquidated as profitably as possible; the proceeds of this sale were to be placed in a trust fund for Dipper and Mabel until they turned twenty-one, when it would be split equally between them. Stan was named as the trustee of this fund, and as the legal guardian of the kids. When Soos (who had watched the kids during Stan’s absence) brought them down, Stan looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He hadn’t, in point of fact.

Fittingly, it rained all throughout the funeral.

Mabel cried from dawn until dusk, while Dipper remained quietly at her side. During the service, he had an arm ceaselessly around her shoulder. Yet he did not shed a single, solitary tear—not that day, nor any day after. Perhaps he was too shellshocked to react; perhaps it was too unreal to comprehend. Whatever grief he was feeling, though, his only thoughts seemed to be for consoling his twin sister. Never far from them that day, Stan would often just stand with a hand on their shoulders; he wanted to say something to them, it seemed, but couldn’t find the right words. Or _any_ words . . .

The actual interment was more than Mabel could bear. She collapsed beside the headstones and sobbed until her throat ached.

The next day, everything the kids owned was mournfully packed and loaded into Soos’s truck. Heirlooms and keepsakes were not rare: every photo in the house, every piece of jewelry, some personal effects, and some serviceable furniture were taken. Everything else was pawned, and if Stan haggled a good price, it was due to inherent skill; certainly his heart wasn’t in it. The house was then, despite Stan’s distrust of their kind, left empty for a real estate agent (Rhonda Rentier “Keeping it real!”) to sell to the highest bidder. What funds were already available from bank accounts and pawning items were forwarded to the trust’s high interest account, despite Stan’s distrust of all bankers everywhere.

And so they began the long drive back to Gravity Falls, to the Mystery Shack and what was now home for all of them. They rolled onward, somber but maybe believing that life would go on as before—that life would slowly return to normal. Maybe they believed no such thing at all.

But life never returns to normal after such things.

Life never really _was_ normal to begin with in Gravity Falls.

And it was about to become a lot less normal on their return . . .

****

It is a sad fact that there are (on average since the year 2000) thirty-five thousand fatalities every year in the United States alone as a result of “vehicle related incidents”—of car crashes.

The number is staggering, but abstract. Statistics always are. When the average person reads it, they see a huge number, but not the faces of the people behind it. When the average person hears it, they hear a huge number, but not the names of the people behind it.

Dipper and Mabel, however, now had two names and faces that would be forever sealed to it.

Tragically, another person of their young age had a name and face forever sealed to it as well.

Not far from the Mystery Shack, in a relatively inexpensive neighborhood of Gravity Falls proper, a family had recently moved in. The neighbors had learned via various conversations over the past month that the reason for the move was fairly banal, even if the result initially seemed a little dramatic. Because of the poor economy, the company for which Mr. Perry Babcock (father of the family) worked (Amalgamated Consolidations Incorporated “We’re all up in your business.”) had shut down its office in Blithe Hollow, Massachusetts; fortunately, they had offered him the chance to keep his position and salary as an office manager if he moved to another office—one in need of his blandly effective style of management—in Gravity Falls, Oregon. He had accepted. He hadn’t had much choice, what with having a family to support.

There was his wife, Sandra, who the neighbors would have described as New Age, middle-aged, and patiently well-meaning. Then there was his daughter, Courtney, who they considered to be a typical (snarky) teenager with texting and cheerleading for marketable skills, and who would soon need money for (community) college. Finally there was his son, Norman, who they found enigmatic. First impressions of the thirteenish year-old boy (once one was past his insuppressibly vertical spikes of dark hair) were somewhat mixed. The kindlier neighbors decided he was a quiet but thoughtful boy—shy and sensitive. Less kindly neighbors thought he was morose and introverted, and that something about him felt “off”. Insightful neighbors (a rare breed, unfortunately) realized that all of the above was true to some degree, yet also saw that Norman was downcast and painfully lonely. In a way, he seemed to always be alone.

None of them ever asked why he was so downcast and painfully lonely, though. His family never talked about it, either, because Norman didn’t talk about it. They had decided that he just needed time, so the subject was avoided. They presumed that it was because Neil Downe was dead.

That was the name forever sealed to the number of fatalities from “vehicle related incidents” for Norman Babcock. It was Neil Downe’s chubby, cheery face he saw when he thought of car crashes—of drunk driving. Of the third of June, too. But it wasn’t because Neil (Norman’s first and only real friend) was _dead_ that he was so downcast and painfully lonely.

It was because Neil was _gone_ . . .

****

At long last, the highway led to Exit 1057. Gravity Falls. 

“Home again, home again . . .” Soos recited with forced cheeriness.

But Mabel was silent as they rounded the exit and merged onto Main Street; she did not finish their traditional little celebratory jingle. She just stared out the window in her black sweater.

Dipper eyed her sorrowfully. So did Soos, who eventually sighed to himself, “Jiggity-jig . . .”

The businesses of Main Street trundled by beyond the window, but she didn’t really see them. They were pointless abstracts—blocks of different colors set in blocks of different colors, each with some supposed significance (but all made and used by people who were too full of themselves anyway to actually mean anything important). Or, as Mabel might more concisely have expressed her feelings (if she had had the energy and cared enough to do so), “_Blah_ . . .”

Then, suddenly, one of them was somehow so concrete that time slowed around it . . .

Mabel straightened up and looked around in vague surprise. Everything but her had stopped—Soos, Dipper, and the truck, the few other cars on Main Street, the passers-by on the sidewalk . . . motionless, all of them. Or almost; they had all slowed to near motionless . . .

It was surreal, for she alone seemed to be unaffected. It almost felt like time-travelling again (which not many people know feels a lot like falling inward, only inside-out), but she knew intuitively that this was different . . . It was like falling sideways (while everything else in reality fell with her) towards this one business that was, somehow, impossibly concrete. Time-bendingly concrete.

Mabel focused on it. It wasn’t really a business, so much as a door in the middle of a building. There didn’t seem to be anything special about it, though; it was just the door to #13 Main Street . . . Maybe it _did_ feel a _little_ like it was looking back at her, but it was still a far cry from the weirdest thing she had ever encountered in Gravity Falls (which would have to be the race of Gnomes who had wanted to make her their queen by group-marrying her). Or even the weirdest thing encountered that week (which would be that rainbow at midnight that formed an ampersand about five days prior).

As she turned back to peer curiously at Dipper and Soos, she thought she heard something—perhaps like a whisper on the edge of hearing, though it was too indistinct to be sure—coming from it. “What’s that?” she wondered aloud.

And with that, the spell was broken. The world was moving through time again, and Dipper was turning to look quizzically at his sister. “You say something?”

For a moment, Mabel hesitated. Then she shook her head and looked back out the window at the rapidly receding (but completely ordinary-looking) door. She later decided that it must have all been her imagination . . .

****

The days that followed the funeral were long ones for Mabel. Rising from bed was difficult; there seemed to be no point in it, and so she spent many hours awake but inert. She thought of little during these empty hours, because her thoughts required too much effort and were invariably painful—they always led back to the fact that her parents were gone. Yet one of the few things to interest her (when she did eventually leave her bed) was the pile of scrapbooks, and she spent many more hours leafing through their pages. The garish colors and excessive jolliness of them were ludicrous to her now, but she combed through them nonetheless for pictures of her parents, and cried over every single one. Sometimes she yielded to a solicitous entreaty to watch some movie or TV show or play some game from her brother or great-uncle, but only rarely, for she could only take so much of their company (or, for that matter, of anyone’s); when she did, she was inattentive, impassive, apathetic, and detached. Mostly she wanted to be left alone, and so she drifted about the Mystery Shack or took Waddles on aimless walks through the woods or into town.

Dipper usually followed her, but at a distance. He was worried about her, after all.

The nights were worse for Mabel. She didn’t sleep much, and usually only when exhaustion overcame her. Until then, she lay in the dark silence, stared at the ceiling, and felt unbearably alone. Every time she did fall asleep, though, she dreamed the same unpleasant dream. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it did make her add sleeping to the long list of things that now held no interest for her.

It started with her kneeling beside her parents’ tombstone under a rainy sky. The rain felt cold—shivering cold. Looking up and around, she realized that no one was there. Not a soul in the cemetery but her. Alone. So alone.

So she ran until she reached her old house, but it was empty now. The walls were bare, and even the carpet and windows were gone. She stepped outside, but the neighborhood had vanished. The people, the animals, even the houses and the trees were all gone. Only the sidewalk remained, bordering empty patches of cold, wet grass. Not a soul in the neighborhood but her. Alone. So alone.

So she ran until she reached Gravity Falls, but the town was empty. Every building was a shell. Empty and hollow. There was nothing in them—no people, no furniture or framed pictures, no products to sell, not even the carpets or the windows. The houses were just as empty, even the ones where Grenda and Candy were supposed to live. Not a soul in Gravity Falls but her. Alone. So alone.

So then she ran as hard as she could to the Mystery Shack, but it was also completely empty. The people that should be there, like the bafflingly enthralled tourists, Soos and Wendy, Gruncle Stan, and especially Dipper, were nowhere to be found. All the museum displays and the shop’s merchandise, all Gruncle Stan’s eclectic belongings, all the things that had belonged to her and Dipper—all the things that _should_ be there, were not there. Empty and hollow. Cold, too. Not a soul in her home but her. Alone. So alone.

She began to cry. And because she couldn’t bear it in the now empty Mystery Shack, she walked back into town as she cried. The town had vanished, however; only the sidewalk remained. Sitting down on the hard, cold concrete of Main Street, she cried harder than anyone had cried before. Not a single soul in the whole world but her. Alone. So alone.

Then, from behind her, she heard a voice.

**LONELINESS**

Turning around, she saw a door with a plaque that read “#13” just standing in the air.

**NEVER AGAIN**

The voice came from behind the door. That was the only way she could describe it, at least.

**OPEN**

For some reason, the voice behind the door unnerved her. So she ran back to the Mystery Shack and hid under the covers of her bed, which was waiting for her in her room.

And when Mabel peeked out from under the covers a second later, she would always find that it was morning again. She was awake. Unrested, but awake.

Every night.

Thus the long days and nights crawled by for Mabel, and summer vacation wound to an end. Labor Day (the last day before the start of the school year in Gravity Falls) arrived, and though classes and schoolbooks had been managed, school supplies had not. Dipper’s schedule—hectic (if organized) under normal circumstances, manic and exhaustive since the funeral in its filling of his days and nights—called for back-to-school shopping that day.

Normally, it would have been a day of high excitement for the two of them—Mabel especially. Dipper wanted it to be that way again, perhaps more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life. “The question,” he mused to himself as he brushed his teeth, “is how to rekindle some of the old fire in her again . . . _Pancakes_! Pancakes are _always_ the answer. And sometimes, they’re the question, too . . .”

So Dipper made pancakes for breakfast that morning, buttered a plate of them, smothered it with Sir Syrup (she was downright partisan in her assertion that it was the superior syrup of all time), then carried the plate up to her in their room in the attic.

“Breakfast time!” he practically sang.

Mabel rolled over and looked at him through sunken, bloodshot eyes. It was true that she had looked better; in fact, she looked terrible. Her hair was a tangled mess, because she hadn’t brushed or washed it properly since the funeral. Nor had she eaten much of anything—she had not wanted to eat—so her face was gaunt and pale. Dipper would even swear that floods of tears had eroded visible canals down her cheeks.

Still, his forced smile never wavered. “_Breakfast time_!” he sang again. “Who wants pancakes? Who’s ready for like our fifth favorite day of the year? Not Halloween, not Summerween, not Christmas, and not National Talk like a Pirate Day, but _Back-to-School Shopping Day_! Woooo! Huzzah! Right?”

Although Mable didn’t exactly spring upright, Waddles did. Her pet pig then grunted something that was either “pancakes” or “doorbell”. Probably the former.

“See? Waddles knows what I’m talking about!” Dipper pushed the plate into Mabel’s hands before seating himself on the corner of the bed. “Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength. I’ve already mapped out the most strategic plan of attack for the three stores that sell school supplies in town, factoring in inventory selection and price. Can you believe there are _three_ stores in a town this size _dedicated_ to school supplies?” he continued determinedly to fill the silence. “Don’t get me wrong, ‘cause I am _all_ for that. If I had my way, _every other store _would be for school supply stuff! But still . . . Anyway, I think we should swing out and around the furthest one, then sweep inward to flank them. They’ll _never_ see it coming! You haven’t touched your pancakes.”

Mabel took a bite and chewed it unenthusiastically. “S’good . . .” she thanked Dipper croakily. Then she cut off a piece for Waddles, who ate it so quickly he couldn’t possibly have tasted it.

“I made it with Sir Syrup. _You know why_ . . . Because he beats Mountie Man . . . c’mon, say it!” he prompted her.

With a wan smile, Mabel retold her old joke, “Mountie Man brings a funny hat to a swordfight.”

“Right!” Dipper asserted. “And that’s exactly why we’re going to _conquer_ today, like we _conquer_ on _every_ Back-to-School Shopping Day. Because the enemy is bringing funny hats and . . . and aprons and nametags to a _swordfight_.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“First of all, my hat is _not_ funny,” Dipper declared categorically. “Second of all, the blue pine tree is like our battle flag—our crest or family coat of arms! That makes my hat a battle helm!”

But Mabel’s eyes had drooped at the word “family”. Tears were already welling up again.

“Oh, no! _Please_, Mabel, don’t start again!” Dipper begged her. “Why are you even crying now?”

“S’just . . . a family coat of arms . . . we’ll _never_ have one now . . .” she chocked.

“Sure we can! Don’t say that! Sure we can!” Dipper pleaded. “We can make one today after we get all the supplies! We’ll get all the stuff while we’re shopping, and it’ll be a great time!”

Shoving the plate of pancakes aside, Mabel shook her head. “I can’t today . . . _I just can’t_ . . .”

“Mabel, you _have_ to . . . H-how am I supposed to raid the stores all on my own? Huh?” he tried. “Raiding _party_, remember? I can’t party all by my lonesome, can I? Besides . . . you _need_ to get out and do _something_ . . . This isn’t healthy . . .”

“I can’t . . . I don’t wanna . . . Just leave me alone . . .”

“What happened to the old Mabel?” Dipper exhorted her. “The one who’d be _so_ _excited_ about new colored pencils and scented markers and those pens with sparkly ink, about googly-eyed erasers and folders and book protectors embossed with kitties and unicorns and . . . and _kitticorns_ that glass would be _shattering_ because of her delighted squeals? What happened to the Mabel who traumatized the school supply stores—who made them live in fear during this season because of our raiding parties? Because I need her back if I’m going to make the stores of Gravity Falls think the marauding hordes of Genghis Kahn swept through. And I _want_ them to think that, Mabel. The greatest happiness is to ravage a school supply store and drive hard bargains from it, to see its owners reduced to ash and sackcloth and leave those who work there too stunned for tears, to gather to our bosom all its merchandise and stuff! You _know_ this.”

Mabel shook her head, chocking on all her emotions.

“So am I just supposed to do this alone?” Dipper asked her, perhaps more forcefully than he felt.

Rolling away from him, Mabel pulled the covers over her head. “L-leave me alone . . . I c-can’t! Not today . . . Maybe n-not _ever again_! Just leave me alone . . .”

That one hit Dipper hard. He felt terrible—like he had failed, and like he had made things worse. But he recognized defeat when he saw it. Rising sadly, he stalked from the room, pausing only to say from the doorway, “If you . . . if you change your mind . . . Not open for a couple hours, and I gotta wait for Soos to be free anyway . . . So If you change your mind, just let me know . . .”

But she didn’t change her mind, and when Stan could finally spare Soos in the early afternoon, Dipper and Soos left without Mabel.

****

“All I’m asking is why we have to do the shopping _today_; why couldn’t it be earlier?”

“Because this is the day with the best sales, dear. It’s cheapest today.”

“Yes, but _everyone else_ is also doing their shopping today. I mean, jeez, it’s like going shopping on Christmas Eve,” Perry Babcock grumbled.

“I know, dear,” Sandra replied soothingly. “But it’s worth it.”

“And don’t we already have everything the kids need? I remember packing lots of school stuff—along with a lot of other _crap_ we haven’t used in years.”

From the backseat, the curvy blonde that was Courtney sighed. “No, Dad. You’re thinking of like the stuff you took from work. We need more than printer paper, ink cartridges, paper clips, and like staple-teeth-removey things.” She didn’t look up from her text message as she said it.

“Hey, that stuff was going to go to waste otherwise,” he said defensively. “Besides, why do you need more stuff? What more do you need? Paper is paper—we got that.”

“And are we like supposed to use ink cartridges _for a printer_ to write?”

Opposite Courtney and staring distantly out the window, Norman observed in a subdued voice, “We could always use the paper clips like medieval quills . . .”

Courtney and Sandra both snorted, but Perry retorted, “Ah, it lives . . . I was starting to wonder if you’d even gotten in the car with the rest of us. You weren’t talking—course, you haven’t been talking much to anyone these days. Anyone but Grandma, that is.”

“S-sorry . . .” Norman apologized automatically, and then resumed his silence.

Perry Babcock exhaled heavily. He hadn’t spoken harshly—he was convinced of that. And yet, Norman always seemed to shrink away from him . . . He often wondered how his son (who could see so much more than normal people) couldn’t see that he meant most of what he said as lighthearted, paternal banter. How could Norman hear so much more than others, but not hear sarcasm?

Halfway down Main Street, he slowed the car. “That the place? ‘Fantastic Scholastic’? Yeesh! Who names these things?”

“Is it #14? Yes, that must be it,” Sandra asserted. “And look, there’s a spot. C’mon, everybody—if we don’t move quickly, this mob will clear the place out before we have a chance to find anything!”

Mob was something of an exaggeration. Certainly Fantastic Scholastic (“Be cool for school!”) was crowded with excited kids and probably equally excited parents (looking forward to only having to deal with their kids on weekends until next June), but it wasn’t a scene of chaos; its air of academia discouraged chaos. So even if the store couldn’t fully dispel it, it did order it. It was orderly chaos.

Nevertheless, while disembarking, Perry Babcock reminded his family, “Elbows out, people. Elbows out and _swinging_.” Sandra and Courtney marched forth with the resoluteness that only women going shopping during a sale can muster. Perry followed them with the resoluteness that only the man who will have to pay at the end can muster—a more resigned and less enthusiastic resoluteness.

Norman shuffled reluctantly after his family. This place was like a school in his eyes—and if life had taught him anything, it was that school is never a happy place. Already there were too many people (kids mostly) looking sideways at him. He recognized several from the neighborhood, and some of them started talking amongst themselves when he passed. He kept his head down.

The automatic doors swooshed open, but Norman suddenly stopped short before them.

“_Cold_ . . .” he murmured in surprise.

It was like he had stepped into a freezer. One moment, the air was warm like early-September, and the next the air was cold like mid-January. He could even see his breath . . .

{You feeling it too, Bugaboo?}

The sudden voice in his ear startled Norman. “_Wha_!” he gasped, spinning around and bumping into some other shoppers as he did. “Hey, watch it!” one said, and another “Jeez! Other people here!” But his eyes weren’t on them; they were on the spectral man hovering an inch above the ground.

{You _do_ feel it! _And you can see me_! Hotsy-Totsy, I knew you were the Real McCoy!} the ghost exalted, even starting a little dance. {You got the peepers, yes you do! Twenty-three skidoo!}

“Uh . . . S-sorry, my phone s-startled me,” Norman said diffidently to the shoppers he’d bumped, even producing it from his pocket. Before any more could be said, he placed it to his ear and stepped off to the side of the automatic doors.

{Boy Medium! Don’t ankle away on me!} the ghost begged desperately of him.

“I hear you, and I’m not going anywhere,” Norman said into the phone, though he was looking directly at the ghost. It was an interesting apparition, to say the least; with big eyes behind thick glasses, a big nose over a thick mustache, and big teeth in an even bigger underbite, the ghost looked eternally surprised to Norman. And slightly off-balance—as if about to fall forward, or as if the head of a big man had been put on a very little man’s body. The knickerbockers, white jacket with vertical black stripes, and straw hat added to the oddness of the ghost, as did the rubber chicken and bicycle horn in its hands. “I just need to get out of the way . . . and for people to think I’m talking to a real—er, a _live_ person . . .” Norman explained.

{Is that what the gizmo is for?}

“What? My phone?”

{_Phone_? As in _telephone_? You’re yanking my chain!} the ghost exclaimed. {Where’s the rotary?}

Norman was completely lost. And then, something else occurred to him. “It’s warm again . . .”

{Well, absaposalutely it’s warm again. You’re not thinning your soles in front of the door.}

“The door?” Norman repeated questioningly, looking at the entrance to Fantastic Scholastic.

{Not _that_ door, you little palooka. _That_ door. Across the street,} the ghost said, pointing.

On the other side of Main Street, where the odd-numbered addresses were located, was a squat building with newish aluminum siding in a pastel yellow color. It was divided down the middle; one half had been converted into a travel agency (Tickets to Paradise, “Syria can be Paradise. Don’t be a racist!”) while the other was now an accounting firm (Competent Accountants, “It’s not supposed to be fun.”). But their respective entries were on opposite ends of the building, and therefore not across the street from Norman or the ghost.

“Which door?” the Medium asked uncertainly.

{Which door, he says,} the ghost sighed in exasperation. {You’ve got the jeepers peepers, kid, but you don’t see something when it up and sticks its schnauzer in your face?}

Norman looked again, but still only saw the two business entrances: Tickets to Paradise and Competent Accountants. But something about them was nagging at him . . . Something was missing . . . And then it dawned on him: Tickets to Paradise was at #11, and Competent Accountants was at #15. “Where’s #13?” he wondered aloud.

{It’s right there. Just _right there_. _That’s_ the door we’re beating our gums about—_the_ door.}

Not sure what else to try, Norman paced back to the automatic door of Fantastic Scholastic while looking directly between #11 and #15. The sudden chill came right outside the store’s threshold. With it came the sudden appearance of #13—a simple, whitewashed door with a brass plaque on it—directly in the middle of the squat building.

Shivering, Norman muttered, “_Weird_ . . .”

{You’re not ragging there,} the ghost agreed.

Eyeing the customers maneuvering around him, Norman noticed that their breath didn’t show. Only his was misting in the air. He alone, of all these living people, seemed to feel the inexplicable cold—just as he alone, of all these living people, could see and hear the ghost.

It was an incredibly lonely feeling . . . But, then again, it always had been . . .

{I’ve deathed here since twenty-eight,} the ghost continued to comment. {And I’ve never seen anything half so uncanny—not even the Thanksgiving leftovers in the trenches!} And with that quip, the horn was honked and the rubber chicken swung around.

Norman stared, trying to grasp what had just been said. Finally, he gave up. “What?”

{Because rations were canned,} the ghost explained obviously. {So leftovers were in open cans. Un_can_ny . . . _Rations . . _. In the _trenches . . _.} he strove, though he was slowly deflating.

“Sorry?”

{The trenches? Where we fought the miser _Kaiser_ and his Sour _Krauts_? To save Freddie _Frog-Leg_ and Eddie _Inedible-Eating_? _The French and the English forces_? _From 1917 to 1918_?} the ghost prompted with increasing desperation.

“You mean . . . the First World War?” Norman asked uncertainly.

{_Yes_! What are they teaching you l’il pills in school these days?!}

“Why didn’t you just say the First World War, then?”

{Because I was making a _joke_! And it was a good one, too—been saving it for _decades_!}

Automatically, Norman offered a meek apology, “S-sorry . . .”

Sighing heavily, the ghost shook its translucent head. {No, kid . . . You didn’t do anything wrong. It just wasn’t that good, was it? Go ahead, I can take it . . . I fudged up the punchline or the timing again, because I always do . . . Have been for _decades_ . . . But I’ll learn to get it right, so help me!}

“Is that . . . why you’re still here?” Norman ventured, knowing it was a very personal question.

{Bingo was his name-o. I swore I wouldn’t rest until I fulfilled my dream to be a vaudevillian . . . And after eighty years, I’m not quitting now! No sir. Even if it takes from here to eternity, I will make a whole audience laugh themselves to tears!} the ghost vowed.

“M-makes you a . . . a s-sorta ‘jokergeist’ then,” the Medium surmised.

{You might say that. Names Tobias Determined, but all my friends . . . well, call me ‘Detoby’.}

“N-Norman Babcock.”

Extending a spectral hand, Detoby grinned. {Nice to meet you, Bugaboo!}

“Uh . . .”

Detoby honked the horn and his grin expanded.

“Oh . . . I g-get it . . . Er, heh. That’s funny,” Norman said charitably. He was shivering, however, and turned back to stare at the door. “Why d-does it make me so c-cold, but not the other p-p-people? Do . . . do you think they c-can even s-see it?”

{Not a clue, Bugaboo. It’s screwy, but . . . all my death, this is the only joint where I catch a chill.}

That surprised Norman, though he didn’t take his eyes off the door. He found the door strangely fascinating—or maybe unsettling was a better word. It unnerved him, yet he did not understand why. “But g-ghosts . . . I thought you g-guys _couldn’t_ feel c-cold or hot . . .” he murmured vaguely.

{We _can’t . . _. Except for _here _. . . All the others in this burg give this joint the plague treatment, but as for me . . . Well, I’m strangely partial to it. Almost nostalgic, if a hatchling bird like yourself can understand that concept yet . . . Reminds me of my days muckraking in the big city, when—}

He rambled on, but Norman wasn’t listening. Not to the Jokergeist, at least. Norman was sure he could hear something from the other side of the door—like a faint voice on the cusp of hearing . . . But he didn’t like it. There was something on the other side, and he didn’t like what it was saying . . .

Was the door growing larger? Was it coming closer? He wondered this with mounting dread, because it seemed to be looming before him all of a sudden. And louder—the voice was growing louder. Something was shouting, screaming, shrieking on the other side of the door. He could _almost_ hear it. That _something_ was pushing against the door—Norman could feel it . . .

He took a step back, and the world unraveled around him.

Was he alone in a forest? He must have been, for trees reared up around him like black spikes. The cold was more intense than any he had ever known. It went as deep as his bones, deep as his soul. He was so cold and so alone that he felt like crying.

Then the door creaked open and a dense fog came roiling out. In an instant, it had snaked around everything. Only the door remained clearly visible. Norman stepped closer to peer inside.

**LONELINESS**

At the sound of the voice in his head, Norman recoiled in terror! There was the something, wreathed by roiling fog! It was tall—so tall its head wasn’t visible through the doorway, just its skeletally thin figure! Black and wrinkly, either its skin or its clothing—no, a black suit, for it wore a white shirt and a black tie! And it was bending to come through the door!

“No! _No_! _NO_!”

Norman turned and fled, but he kept tripping over roots and stumbling into tree trunks! Worse, their branches were swinging through the air to snag him! He knocked away those he saw coming, and shook himself free of the others as he ran, but suddenly there was a fence barring his way forward! Looking back, he saw the impossibly tall, impossibly thin figure stalking inexorably towards him through the curtain of fog! Coming closer! Coming for him!

**TAKE AWAY**

“_Stay away from me_!”

Sprinting away from the fence, he tried to escape down a narrow clearing! So thick, the trees were so thick . . . Every branch seemed to be grasping at him! Then the fence again! The figure wasn’t far behind—always so close behind! Another narrow clearing, another chance at escape . . . But it led right to the fence again! Norman had run into a corner, into a trap!

Choking on his fear, he cowered in the corner and tried to be silent—tried to hide in the fog . . . Maybe the figure would miss him—certainly he had barely been able to see it . . . It might move past him and then he could try to run back the way he had come . . . Maybe . . . Just maybe . . .

“Oh no . . .” There it was! And though the fog obscured the features of its deathly pale face, Norman knew it was looking right at him!

Then it was bearing slowly down on him, coming at him!

Norman covered his eyes and began to sob, “Please no . . . _Please_ . . .”

**FOREVER**

“_NO_! IT’S COMING FOR EVERYONE!”

A hand seized Norman’s wrist, and he struggled and screamed!

Then a hand was tapping his face. “Norm! _Norm, _it’s_ me_! _Snap out of it_!”

Norman opened his eyes to see his sister, Courtney—all shades of pink and natural blonde—huddled over him protectively. Florescent lights buzzed overhead in the reassuring way of retail stores. The air was warm and clear around him.

And behind his sister, dozens of people were staring uneasily at him.

Perry powered through them, asserting a quickly invented story, “Alright, let me by. It’s all okay. Nothing to worry about—just a . . . just a medical condition. A seizure he has from time to time—”

“Medical condition?! _Seizure_?!” a nigh hysterical Fantastic Scholastic manager repeated.

“Yes, but we don’t hold you at all liable—”

“_Liability_?!”

“The doctor assured us he should be fine, but something must have triggered the fit. Emotional, maybe. Too worked up for school—”

“_Emotional damages_?!”

Perry decided right then that inventing things wasn’t helping diffuse the situation. “Look, we’ll just pay for our stuff and get him home,” he offered placatingly. “I even just passed by the bank, so—”

“_Bankruptcy_?!”

Rubbing his temples, Perry groaned, “For the love of . . .”

Ignoring the brouhaha at her back, however, Courtney whispered to Norman, “You alright? What’d you see? Because you looked like you saw a . . . well, y’know what I mean. You looked terrified.”

“I . . . I d-don’t _know_ . . .”

“So it wasn’t a ghost, then? I mean, ghosts are sorta your _thing_. You’re about as scared of ghosts as I am of cute football players.”

“It w-wasn’t a _ghost . . _. It . . . I’ve never . . . _It was coming for me_!” Norman whispered fearfully.

“Well, yes; he _should’ve_ been with me. But I _thought_ he _was_,” Perry answered someone irately.

Sandra, maneuvering her way through the press of still gawking people, came to the rescue of her husband in that moment. And she did it calmly. “Listen, it’s nothing serious. My son just needs air. Won’t you all please give him a little air?”

“Or you might set him off again, and then I _will_ hold the store liable,” Perry added menacingly.

“You heard them!” the manager shouted desperately at the other shoppers. “Move along! Nothing to see here! Shoo! _Shoo_!”

“C’mon, little bro—on your feet . . .”

With his sister’s help, Norman staggered upright. But he wilted under his father’s gaze.

Not that Perry was angry. A few years ago, he might have been incensed, but one crazy night two autumns past had changed everything he thought he had understood about his son. So now, even if he was embarrassed by and disappointed with his son—with Norman’s usually odd, frequently bizarre, and occasionally freakish behavior (and all of it unnecessarily so, as Perry saw it)—he just could not be angry with him; it would have served no purpose, because Norman was just being Norman, and Perry just had to put up with that.

That was why Perry Babcock’s gaze, as he looked down at his son, was painfully longsuffering.

Most people would have called this an improvement over anger. Most people are fools.

“S-sorry, Dad . . .” Norman mumbled with his head hung low.

Perry heaved a sigh. “Was it another ghost?”

“N-no . . . I mean, I m-met one, but he wasn’t what scared me . . .”

{Thank goodness!} Detoby said from above, relief in every syllable.

“Well, what was it then? Is it still here?” Perry inquired, his tone almost indifferent.

“I . . . I d-don’t know . . . It was like the s-school play, back when Aggie . . . the night she—”

“So you saw things that weren’t actually there,” Perry surmised.

“Dear . . .” Sandra said in gentle reproof.

{Hey! What card game does this joker think he’s playing?!} Detoby demanded.

Shaking his head, Norman muttered, “The ghosts _are_ there . . .”

“That’s what I mean,” Perry declared. “The ghosts actually are there, but what you saw wasn’t?”

“I . . . I g-guess?” Norman conceded. “But it was _so real_ when I was seeing it . . .”

“I understand that, but . . . did it have to be _here_?”

Norman looked around. Dozens of pixelated kitten faces with colorful ribbons were winking down at him. He had run and hidden himself in the Hiya Kitten section of Fantastic Scholastic. Shamefaced, he stammered, “I c-couldn’t help it . . .”

“No, you probably couldn’t . . .” Perry said with another heavy sigh. “We’ll discuss this all later. Let’s just pay for all this stuff and go home . . .”

The manager personally expedited their progress through check-out, yet it still took an eternity for Norman. In the meantime, he could feel every glance and every stare from the other customers—especially from the other kids. What’s more, because he had exceptionally keen ears, he could hear some of their conversations.

“. . . Weirdo . . .”

“. . . What’s with him, anyway? That was so strange . . .”

“. . . I love those shoes! How much were they? I want a pair, too . . .”

“. . . What do you mean ‘ghosts’? ”

“. . . They moved into our neighborhood. Seriously, he’s always _alone_ and _talking to himself_ . . .”

“. . . Yeah, freaky . . .”

“. . . We have any classes together? Do you think that kid is in any of them? That’d be freaky . . .”

“. . . What if he’s _crazy_? Like, _literally_ crazy? Poor kid . . .”

{Try not to listen to them,} the Jokergeist said kindly. {Tell you what, I’ll escort you back home. Unless you want me to dry up and get a wiggle on?}

Norman shook his head silently.

Somewhat surprised, Detoby grinned. {You want me to stick around? Ha! Twenty-three skidoo! No one _ever_ does! You got it! I’ll stick with you, Bugaboo!}

“. . . I heard he _says_ he can see _ghosts_ . . .”

“. . . Really, we’ve got a deep connection. We should totally make it official on Facebook . . .”

“. . . Did you see the way he was crying and yelling for no reason? Baby . . .”

“. . . Don’t be mean. He’s sick, or something. That’s what his dad said . . .”

“. . . Wasn’t he just standing in the doorway for a while? Talking to himself, or something . . .”

“. . . The game is the coolest! So creepy. It’ll make you scream like, well, like that kid . . .”

“. . . Probably just trying to get attention . . .”

“. . . Freak. I think he’s a _freak_ . . .”

“. . . Did you hear them afterwards? They were talking about _ghosts_. They’re all _nuts_ . . .”

And then the Babcock family was on its way.

Norman and Courtney were the first out of Fantastic Scholastic, both wanting just to escape. Courtney had her arm protectively around his shoulders, and Norman wasn’t looking at anything above foot-height—he even scrunched his eyes shut while exiting the store so as not to see #13.

“You okay, Norm? You’re shivering.”

“F-_fine_. Let’s just g-go.”

Behind them, Sandra and Perry (who was trying to steer the cart’s trundling towards the car) nearly collided with a boy in a blue and white hat who had the stony expression of a conqueror surveying an unguarded city. And then, because it was difficult maneuvering around him and the cart of the large man following him, they were treated to the boy’s sudden and excessively bellicose orders.

“Alright, Soos, here’s the plan: you sweep to the back and load up on at least ten reams of binder paper. Only the good stuff, college ruled—more bang for our buck. They’re doing a sale here. Then swing to the math section. We need two rulers, two protractors, and one ream of graphing paper. If anyone gets in your way, lethal force _is_ authorized. Do it quick and do it hard; we’re a strike force. Pens are my target—they have a wider selection and better prices here on all things . . . pen-like. However, I’m hitting the folders and book protectors first. _Anything_ and _everything_ with piglets on it is hereby our property by right of conquest. Got it?”

“Yessir, Genghis Dipper, sir!”

“What the heck?” Perry muttered.

“Then go, man. It’s nearly _three_ already; we’re _behind_ _schedule_. Go! _Gogogo_!”

“RAAAAAARGH!” The large man barreled forward, roaring like a battle hamster.

The boy, on the other hand, lunged towards the manager. “You there! Apron-boy! Take me to _everything_ you’ve got on inventory with piglets printed on it!”

“Huh?”

“Be quick about it—or, so help me, I will _raze_ this enterprise to the ground and _salt_ _the earth_ behind me as a warning to all other school supply stores!”

“Jiggity what?”

Finally reaching the sidewalk, Perry commented in an undertone to Sandra, “And people think _our_ son is a freak . . .”

“Dear, remember that we don’t use that word.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll correct my statement. And people think our _boy_ is a freak . . .”

Sandra sighed heavily. “Dear . . .”

****

The car ride home was a quiet and uncomfortable one for the Babcock family. And for Detoby, who sat in the back between Norman and Courtney. {Comfy auto . . . Sure beats the old jalopy I used to terrorize pedestrians with . . .} he observed. {The ‘T’ stood for terror, I always used to say.}

Norman glanced over when Detoby honked his spectral horn, and then looked away again.

{Model T, see?} Detoby’s huge, cheesy grin melted. He’d always thought that was rather clever. A few minutes later, as the Babcock family pulled into their driveway, Detoby nodded appreciatively. {Quite the wigwam. Used to have myself one like this, back before I went toes up . . .}

“Thanks,” Norman mumbled. “I’ll show you my room later, if you like.”

Courtney looked up, but waited for her father to climb out of the car before asking, “Is there . . . one in the car right now?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. His name’s Detoby.”

“Just . . . make sure he stays out of my room, okay?” she requested with a shudder.

{Tell her I won’t even turn the knob.} Honk! Honk! {But seriously—where you going?}

Norman had already exited the car, and rounded it to where his father was emptying the trunk. He then waited silently, a pathetically hopeful, pathetically helpful expression on his face.

Seeing him, Perry sighed. From the various sacks, he selected one and handed it over to his son. “This should have your stuff in it. Why don’t you . . . go show it to Grandma, or something?”

“O-okay . . .” Norman replied, half-relieved and half-disappointed. “You . . . d-don’t wanna talk about . . . what happened?”

“What’s there to talk about, Norman? Can you explain what happened? Can you make it stop? No? Then what’s there to talk about that we haven’t already talked about?” Perry asked resignedly.

Shoulders slumped, Norman conceded, “Nothing, I guess . . . I’ll be in my room if . . . if anyone wants me . . .”

He didn’t wait for Detoby, nor did he pause in the living room when his grandmother (forever in a comfortable track suit) called out, {How was the—Normy, what’s wrong?} He went straight upstairs to his room and threw the door shut behind him.

Letting the sack of school supplies fall to the floor, he slumped onto his bed and buried his face in his hands. “It’s s-starting . . . It’s s-starting _all over again_ . . .”

A second later, his grandmother floated up through the floor. {Normy, what’s the matter?}

Norman looked up at her, tears in his eyes, and just shook his head.

Detoby poked his head through the door then. {Where’d you get to, Bugaboo? Ah, found you! Whoa, are these all posters for talkies? More old talkies here than a quilting bee.}

{Um . . . Who are you? And what are you doing in my grandson’s bedroom?}

Wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, Norman performed a watery introduction. “Grandma, this is Tobias Determined . . . He’s a . . . a f-friend I made at the store . . .”

Doffing his cap and flourishing both horn and rubber chicken gallantly, Detoby made a low bow. {_Charm-ay-ay-one-chant-ay-madam-gazelle_—that means ‘charmed and enchanted, miss’ in _Fronds-say_. But all my . . . well, everyone who knows me calls me ‘Detoby’.}

{Uh . . . Elaine Stritch Babcock. Call me Elaine.} Norman’s grandmother added perfunctorily.

{I’ll say ‘quack-quack’ to that!} the Jokergeist grinned while honking his horn.

Elaine blinked at him uncomprehendingly. {Huh?}

{Because it’s ducky.}

{Ooookay . . .} Elaine replied uncertainly.

“That was a joke. He’s trying to be funny, Grandma,” Norman sniffed halfheartedly.

{Keyword: trying,} Elaine muttered to herself.

{Now, are you and your family new in this burg, Elaine? Because I thought I knew all the spooks in Gravity Falls,} Detoby commented conversationally.

{Yes, we moved in a few weeks ago.}

{Ah, that does explain it. It was a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t run across either of you before. Every spook wants to know when a Medium comes to town—a Real McCoy Medium, like Norman . . . Showbiz hint for you, Bugaboo, should you ever take your gift on the road; call yourself ‘NorMedium’. The specs will drink it up like free hooch,} Detoby said sagaciously. {Anyway, most spooks consider it their potatoes to know about the nearest Medium. And I definitely make it my potatoes to know about all the lovely ladies.}

{Er . . . Are you hitting on _me_?}

{I?! Hit a lady?! Never!}

{No, really, are you _flirting_ with _me_?} Elaine asked in disbelief. {Because I died in my seventies, Casanova. I look old enough to be your mother.}

{True, but I was forty-three when I kicked it in twenty-eight. So I’m actually old enough to be _your_ grandfather. And I think that balances out should both of us decide there’s no reason to be lonely for the rest of the afterlife. _Grrrrrow_!}

Elaine just stared at the other ghost for a long moment. Then she looked to her young grandson, whose eyes were still moist. {So . . . you two met at the store. Did everything go alright there, or is there something you want to talk about, Normy?}

{Call it a cathedral, because something definitely tran-_spired_ there.}

{Is that true?} she asked Norman gently.

“Yeah . . .”

{I see. Detoby,} she addressed her new acquaintance briskly, {could you give us a moment?}

{Oh, _bee-en-sir-madam-gazelle_. Just call me a ghost’s ghost, because I’ll be on _the other side_.} And the Jokergeist floated back through the door with another honk.

Sitting down next to her grandson—or at least floating an inch above the bed beside him in a sitting position—she said in a low voice, {That’s better . . . Kind of a strange character, isn’t he?}

With a sniff, Norman replied, “He’s friendly enough, though.”

{Maybe a little too friendly . . . Now, I’m saying nothing against him. But next time, let it be a puppy that follows you home. At least it’ll be cuter when it tries to jump on me . . . So, what happened?} she asked gently.

“I . . . I saw something scary . . . It was like the school play, you remember? When Aggie started waking up? Except . . .” Norman shuddered. “What I saw _then_, it felt real and all. But I felt scared because strange people were chasing me . . . This time . . . _It_ _wasn’t_ _human_ . . .”

{You’ve dealt with that before. And you were very brave, too,} she added proudly.

Norman shook his head. “No, the Judge and the others . . . They were undead, but they were still people—still _human_ . . . But the thing I saw . . . I don’t think it was . . .”

{What happened exactly?}

“There’s this door across the street from the store, right in the middle of a building. In front of it, it’s really cold. But no one else seemed to notice it but me and Detoby, and he says other ghosts, too,” Norman explained. “The door and the cold.”

{Strange . . .} Elaine mused. {I don’t ever really feel cold anymore—or hot for that matter . . . Sometimes, I get the feeling that I should . . . feel cold, or hot, or hungry, I mean . . . but I don’t really. Almost like a . . . a phantom pain. Pun not intended.}

“That’s what Detoby said. Anyway, I looked at it, and it was like something on the other side knew I was looking at it. Like it was trying to get out . . .” Norman grimaced. “And then, everything was dark and foggy . . . It was so cold, and so lonely . . . I wanted to _cry_, I felt so lonely . . .”

Elaine tried to hold her grandson reassuringly, but ended up holding her arm around him.

“Then I saw something come through the door for me . . .” Norman recounted in a hollow voice. “It was so tall—too tall . . . And thin like a skeleton, but wearing an old black suit . . .”

{This thing . . . it _sounds_ human.}

“But it was like it didn’t have a face or a voice! And I ran, because I was terrified . . . But it made me feel like . . . like I shouldn’t even bother running—like I should just give up . . . I am alone, and am always going to be alone, and no one will miss me when I’m gone . . .” he insisted through fresh tears. “That’s how it made me feel . . . And it was right!”

{Now, Normy dear,} his grandmother soothed him. {You know that’s not true.}

“Yes, it is! All the kids saw me freak out, and now they all think I’m a freak, too! _Just_ _like_ _before_! And Dad . . . Dad was so . . . so . . .” Norman sobbed.

{Was he angry with you? For something you couldn’t help? Jackass!} Elaine fumed. {If I wasn’t incorporeal, I would go whoop his backside right now like I did when he was your age!}

“No, he w-wasn’t even _angry_ . . . He was j-just . . . He d-doesn’t even _c-care_ enough to be _angry_! Or talk about it! I’m just something he has to p-put up with—t-tolerate . . . But he doesn’t want me . . . wishes I wasn’t here . . .” Norman surmised bitterly. “It’s _just_ _like_ before . . . It’s all starting again . . .”

{I’m sorry, Normy . . . Sorry I didn’t raise a better father for you . . .}

“It’s not his fault . . . I’m just a . . . just a freak nobody wants—”

{Don’t you say that! Don’t you _dare_ say that, young man!} Elaine insisted angrily. {Your father does love you; he’s just an idiot who doesn’t know how to cope with what he doesn’t understand . . . Your mother and sister both care very much about you. And there’s that fish-faced Detoby just outside who apparently followed you home just to make sure you’d be alright. There are _plenty _of people who care about you. And even if there was _no one_ else in the whole, _wide_ world who cared about you, there will always be _me_! I wouldn’t trade any of our experiences for anything—not even when you threw up all over my antique lace. Remember that? That’s how dear you are to me. So no more talk like that, alright, young man?}

Norman didn’t reply.

{Alright?}

Eventually, Norman nodded weakly, though he didn’t look at his grandmother.

{Ahem.}

They both looked towards the door, through which Detoby had genially stuck his head.

{I heard the word ‘fish-faced’. Shall I presume that such was, as usual, in application to mwa, or should I clam-scray?}

{Clam-scray?} Elaine repeated.

{Well . . . maybe I was floundering a bit—angling for laughs, if you will—but as cod is my witness, I shall net a laugh. Be it by accident or on porpoise.}

Norman snorted in spite of himself. “That was _really_ _bad_ . . .”

Elaine groaned. {Please stop. Just stop . . . Seriously, what kinda troll thinks fish puns are funny?}

{Woe betide me, I guess I sea what you mean, my little siren.}

{I’ve got knitting needles, buster.} And Elaine brandished her translucent knitting implements just to prove it. {I’m not afraid to use them.}

{I’ve sunk to new depths . . . Death threats from other ghosts . . .}

“It’s okay, Grandma,” Norman intervened. “I’m actually enjoying it—bad as the jokes are . . . Guess I’m a sucker . . . _Dugong_ it,” he said weakly.

Elaine rubbed her temples. Detoby guffawed, {Ha! I’ll have to use that one! You’re alright, kid!}

****

On returning from the “raiding party” (at a little after four), Dipper took all the swag he thought would interest Mabel and staggered up to their room in the attic. “Hey, Mabel!” he called in advance. “Guess who made the stores fear his name today! You should’ve come—we could’ve really pillaged them together! Plus, I saw this kid whose hair was all whoosh! Straight-up! You would’ve been amazed! Anyway, I’ve got some stuff you might like,” he said tentatively. “That brand of sparkly pens you love, and probably every folder with piglets on it in a ten-mile radius. If there are any left, I’ll—”

He stopped abruptly. In a corner of their attic room, Mabel was curled up with her sweater pulled over her head. It was the same black sweater she had worn at the funeral, though now stained and grubby, for she had gravely refused to change or wash it since. Waddles was dozing at her side.

“You’re in Sweater Town . . .” Dipper realized glumly. “You got a scrapbook in there, too?”

“Mhmm . . .” she whimpered in response. “The one for our trips to Disneyland . . . Remember when you said you would never get on Splash Mountain with me ever again?”

“Yeah. Eleven straight times of those singing animals killed most of the joy in my heart forever.”

“And D-Dad . . . Dad p-promised he’d ride it with me . . . as much as I w-wanted? So we spent like the next three hours on it?”

“And then the CD with ‘Zip-a-de-do-da’ happened to ‘mysteriously’ disappear . . . I remember,” her brother reminisced sadly. “Anyway . . . Are you gonna come out of Sweater Town? You’ll want to see all this _cool_ stuff I got you.”

“Nuh uh . . .”

“Please?” he begged her with false cheeriness. “Look, these folders even have _piglets_ on them. One looks like Waddles. Isn’t that _great_? See, they’re all ‘oink-oink cheer up, Mabel’! Cute, huh?”

On hearing his name, Waddles lifted his porcine head and grunted something that was either “folder” or “pancakes”.

“See? Waddles agrees that these are _uboar_ cool,” Dipper wheedled hopelessly. “Eh? _Eh_?”

Mabel said flatly. “Pigs don’t say ‘oink’—which you well know.”

“Okay, they’re actually saying ‘Nhk-nhk! Cheer up Mabel! Nhk-nhk!’ Right?” Dipper prompted. And on receiving no visible reaction, he feigned indignation. “C’mon, _nothing _for that? Not even a snort when I clog up my sinuses? Seriously, though, these piglet pictures are adorable. And this is _me_—the guy who hates adorable—saying that, so they must be sweet on a level that’s measured in metric tons of sugar cane.”

“Sweater Town isn’t celebrating Back-to-School Shopping Day this year,” Mabel said quietly. “The mayor canceled it for personal reasons.”

“Well, tell the mayor that city morale needs this day. The parades are ready, and everything.”

“I am the mayor. It’s me,” Mabel countered morosely. “No parade permits . . .”

Sitting beside her, Dipper put a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, Mabel. School starts tomorrow, and you haven’t even started choosing your _sweater_. By now, you usually have the floor covered with more yarn than a . . . I can’t think of a good joke to end that. Maybe a storytelling convention for sheep? Heh. Man, that joke was ba-a-a-ad. Eh? _Eh_?”

“It was pretty ba-a-a-ad,” Mabel agreed halfheartedly. “Should leave ewe sheepish.”

“Heh. I wool feel pretty sheepish about it for a while.”

After a moment of silence, Mabel asked, “Enough to cause the silence of the lamby-lamby?”

“Wow. That one came out of nowhere . . . maybe, um, put it out to pasture?”

“Don’t ram any jokes through.”

“Dang it!” Dipper cursed theatrically after a moment. “That’s all I’ve got. You win this round, sister, but I’ll be ba-a-a-ack. So which sweater do you want? I can help you choose, if you want . . .”

“No thanks . . . Prob’ly just wear this one . . .”

“But it’s _dirty_, Mabel,” Dipper protested wearily. “At least . . . at least let me _wash_ it for you.”

Feeble yet forceful, she stated, “No.”

Abandoning the feigned light spirits, Dipper strove to respond in kind. “Mabel, I know this is . . . this is hard to accept, but Mom and Dad . . .”

Mabel began sobbing quietly.

Balking, he tried a different tack, “Life goes on. W-we still have to keep living in the real world—can’t just hide in Sweater Town for the rest of forever . . . So . . . so please just choose one of these stupid piglet folders!” he begged her.

“You expect me . . . to think about p-_piglets_ at a time like this?! Go away!” she sobbed angrily. “Just leave me _alone_ . . .”

“Just look at them!”

“No! I won’t!”

“Please!”

“Shan’t!”

Dipper recoiled. “Whoa now, Mabel, let’s not resort to profanities we can’t take back.”

“Shan’t! Shan’t! Shan’t!” she fired at him. “Now go away!”

“_Fine_, but I’m leaving them here, along with the pens and all the other school stuff I got you,” her brother petulantly insisted as he slapped everything down in front of her. “By dinner time, _everything_ has to be packed for tomorrow. N-_no_ excuses, Mabel.”

And Dipper stormed out before she could respond. He practically slammed the door behind him.

In a fit of temper, Mabel jerked her sweater back down and snatched up a folder—intending to shred it. But when she went to rip it in two, she was arrested by the little, pink, innocently inquisitive faces of the piglets. She just couldn’t damage it—damage _them_—after that. Wailing, “S-stupid _Dipstick_! Stupid . . . adorably innocent p-piglets!” she held it to her chest and wailed.

****

{I think I’ve got the choicest ones memorized . . .} Detoby declared. {Some of the best fish puns I’ve heard all my death. Especially Elaine’s absaposalutely inspired barracuda pun! I will forever atoll the genius of it! I’m still laughing!}

With a tone that was drier than the Atacama Desert, she retorted, {I’m happy my slow descent into this purgatory-madness—apparently how I’m to be punished for my sins—has amused you.}

{You card! But the reeled question is: did it cheer up you, Bugaboo?} Detoby asked Norman.

A weak but genuine smile actually showed itself on Norman’s face. “I guess . . . I guess it did. Enough bad puns must numb the parts of the brain that feel sadness.”

{Twenty-three skidoo! That was always the point of everything. So . . . what do we do now?}

{Well, I don’t know about you two, my brain has had enough numbing. My stories are on now, and the lady next door always watches them, so I’m off.}

After Elaine had drifted out through the wall, Detoby asked, {How does one watch a story?}

“It’s a TV show . . . Like a—what did you call it?—talkie series, I guess?”

{Your neighbor has her own cinema equipment? In her _house_?} Detoby marveled.

“Just a TV. Most people do.”

{Oh, I see . . . TV . . . Yes, of course . . .}

“Um . . .” Pulling out a personal DVD player, Norman said, “I can show you. You wanna watch something, too?”

{We can watch _talkies_ on _that_? But the screen is so small, how could the projector work?}

Norman switched it on. Detoby’s eyes got even bigger. “I’ve got some, er, talkies over there on the shelf. Most are classic horror, so you need to be a connoisseur to _fully_ appreciate them. Like me,” Norman added with a hint of quiet pride. “But they’re not exactly an acquired taste, so you should still enjoy them anyway. See any that look really good to you.”

Floating down at their level, Detoby felt a little overwhelmed by the selection. Eventually, choosing at random yielded one. {This ‘Fear Guy from Terror Town Street’ sounds . . . interesting . . .}

“Ah, an excellent choice!” Norman said as he popped the disc into the player.

****

“Okay, Soos, he went to go get Chinese for dinner . . . We should have like twenty minutes,” Wendy said stealthily from her vantage point at the window.

“You’re sure Mister Pines is gone? Dude, you remember what happened the last time he caught us doing . . . _it_ . . .”

“Don’t worry. We’re in the clear,” Wendy declared. “Alright, Soos . . . Rock my world _right now_. Rock it _as hard as you can_.”

Soos approached Wendy with a fiery determination in his eyes.

And then he stepped past her. Behind the cash register in the souvenir shop—not the machine, but where the person (usually Wendy) stood (or lounged)—was a secret compartment, and he slid aside the carefully aligned wood paneling to open it. A Bianco-Canonico brand, piano-type accordion was carefully hidden inside it. Looping its straps around his shoulders, he eagerly primed it. “FweeeEEEEEE!” it bellowed.

“Let’s _do_ this.”

Soos’s arms feverishly pumped the bellows of the instrument and his fingers blurred wildly over the keys. A tango, quick and precise and full of flourishing swagger, possessed the souvenir shop.

Wendy, her arms held as though a partner stood within their embrace, began to move in time with the beat. She stepped, she sashayed, she twirled, she kicked in the air. Fluid yet entirely controlled, elegant yet full of stylish embellishment, she danced with practiced skill and uncharacteristic passion.

And then Dipper descended the stairs. “Tango music? What the heck?”

Soos and Wendy both froze.

“Oh, _Dipper_!” Wendy sighed in sudden relief. “Phew! We thought you were Stan for a minute.”

“Dude, you _cannot_ tell Mister Pines about this!” Soos implored. “He seriously might fire us!”

“Well, he might fire _you_ . . .” Wendy said confidently.

“What are you guys even doing?”

With a shrug, Wendy replied, “I’m practicing my dance steps. Soos was on accompaniment.”

“_Dance_? _You_?” Dipper burst out in surprise. “And since when does Soos play the . . . accompaniment, I guess? I thought that was an accordion.”

“My talents are manifold and shrouded in mystery, like my wisdom . . . and like my past . . .” Soos intoned enigmatically. He struck a dramatic pose and an equally dramatic chord.

“He was _accompanying_ me on the _accordion_,” Wendy explained breezily. “And, yeah, kinda not what you’d expect me to be into, right? But my dad is actually way into ballroom dance.”

“_Your dad_?” Dipper repeated incredulously. “_Manly Dan_ is into ballroom dance?”

“Ironic right? So don’t ever let him hear you say ballroom dancing isn’t manly. The last guy . . . Well, let’s just say he eats his meals out of straws.”

Dipper gasped. “You’re dad broke his teeth?”

“Nah, just all the guy’s spoons and forks.”

“You’re . . . you’re _amazing_ . . . Er, _both of you_, I mean,” Dipper managed to compliment her casually enough.

“Yeah, my dad kinda insisted on teaching all of us, so my brothers and me are all _embarrassingly_ good. Not that you can ever tell my friends . . . Course, you’re not too bad at dancing yourself.”

Turning crimson, Dipper tried to laugh that off. “Yeah, but . . . Ahaha! Only at that _one_ dance! Which you know all about already . . . Unfortunately . . .”

“Well, c’mon then. Let’s add some new moves to your repertoire.”

“No, r-really! I’m sure I’d be no good!” the behatted boy tried to decline.

“Nothing doing, Dipper. Now, here: you take my hand in yours and hold it out in front of us at about shoulder-height. Relax your elbow a little,” she instructed amiably, apparently not noticing the flushed look on his face that was halfway between elated bliss and full-blown panic. “I put my hand on your shoulder, and you put yours around me so that your hand is just below my shoulder blades. Though, since I’m so freakishly tall, you’ll have to put it a little lower I guess. Somewhere natural, is all. There, lower back should be good,” she coached him, missing the way his expression intensified tenfold until he looked like an extremely confused tomato. “Now we step forward: inside foot, outside foot, inside—just step with me.”

“S-sorry! Guess I’m n-not at this very good, at this,” Dipper stammered, tripping over his tongue like he was tripping over his feet.”

“Nah, you’re just new at it,” Wendy reassured him. “Okay, just step normally with me now.”

“S-stepping with you like this isn’t exactly _normal_,” Dipper tried to joke. He wished it was. Oh, how he wished it was!

“Inside foot . . . Good, now outside foot . . . Inside foot again . . . Now plant the outside foot, pivot around, and have your arms switch places. That’s all it is.”

“Th-that’s all?”

“That’s all,” she affirmed encouragingly. “Now we just do it again: inside foot, outside foot, inside foot, plant outside foot and pivot.”

Following the steps with her, Dipper muttered to himself, “Inside foot, outside foot, inside foot, plant outside and pivot . . . Inside foot, outside foot, inside foot, plant outside and pivot . . .”

“Good. Now we try to do it a little faster and smoother: inside, outside, inside, plant-pivot.”

“Inside, outside, inside, plant-pivot . . . Inside, outside, inside, plant-pivot . . .”

“One, two, three, four-and one, two, three, four-and one—”

“—two, three, four-and one,” Dipper continued, now concentrating on his feet more than he ever had before in his entire life. Had that smudge that sorta looked like a buffalo always been there?

“Play it again, Soos!”

“You got it, dudes.” And with that, the tango music lived and loved once again.

Dipper stumbled again at the beginning, but with Wendy’s friendly coaching he soon recovered. It didn’t exactly feel natural, but he began to catch the pattern to the rhythmic stepping and pivoting—which allowed time to consider just how warm his hand felt in Wendy’s . . . _So_ _very_ _warm_ . . .

“How’s it coming?” she asked, completely surprising him.

“I . . . I think I got it in hand!” he burst out, regretting it almost at once.

“Or in foot, at least,” Wendy quipped.

“Ha! Yeah! Exactly! Just what I meant! Hahaha!” Dipper forced a laugh.

“You’re catching on really quickly,” she complimented him. “We’ll make a dancer of you yet.”

“You really think so?”

The vision blossomed in Dipper’s mind. The two of them were on the dance floor, she in a gown of shimmering turquoise, and he in dapper tailcoat. Encircling them were marveling spectators, but they only had eyes for each other. The band played, striving to keep up with the passionate movements of Wendy and Dipper. Twirling and cartwheeling! Finally, she gazed into his eyes and whispered, “Show me why they call you ‘the Double-Dipper’!” And he dipped her low, then raised her and twirled into a dip on the other side! The crowd thundered its acclaim, members of the band wept out of pure joy, and Wendy swooned in his arms. “Oh, _Dipper_ . . . Let me kiss you once, _long_ and _passionately_, Dipper . . . Dipper . . . Dipper?”

Reality intruded on fantasy. Reality does that sometimes. Reality is a jerk. “Huh?”

“I said, ‘Are you okay?’ You’ve got that look Robbie usually gets before he spray-paints a muffin on something . . .” Wendy explained.

“Oh, just . . . thinking I should take dancing lessons . . .” Dipper answered truthfully.

“It’s fun, right?”

“Yeah . . . More than I ever dared imagine . . .”

Reality intruded again just then. Reality is a big jerk. “So is Mabel doing any better? I’ve barely seen her all day.”

“No . . .” Dipper conceded unhappily. “Not really, no . . . Normally, she’d be down here, too. Taking pictures for a scrapbookortunity, or something, and all excited for school tomorrow . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Soos offered even as he played the accordion. “Hambone just needs some time.”

“But how much? She hasn’t laughed since . . . y’know . . . Or even _smiled_ . . .” Dipper moped. “I’ve already lost . . .” He swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to lose Mabel—the _real_ Mabel—too . . .”

“Well—”

A car door slammed outside.

Wendy and Soos froze. The music died with a lingering wheeze like an Argentine death rattle.

“What the—_SOOS_!” Stan roared.

Sweating bullets, Soos could only murmur, “Crapcrapcrapcrap_crap_!”

“Put it back! _Put it back_!” Wendy hissed, waving at the secret compartment.

Soos scrambled, only just managing to slide it shut and jump towards a creaky postcard rack (while Wendy dove to her usual spot behind the register, and Dipper just stood there in mute confusion) before Stan stormed in.

“I thought I told you _never_ to play—” Stan stopped and glared around them room. Bags of takeout food swung menacingly with his movements. “Where is it?” he demanded.

“Where’s what?” Wendy asked, feigning innocent indifference.

“Don’t you pull that on me. _Where’s_ _the_ _accordion_?”

“Accordion?”

“The accordion I heard playing _just now_!”

“Oh, _that_. That was just the radio. We were looking for something to listen to, and it landed on a Spanish channel,” Wendy lied aloofly.

Stan scrutinized her suspiciously. Eventually, however, he grumbled, “Fine. But _no_ tango music. _Ever_. Tango music is the tool of the Devil. And _no_ accordions. They’re the . . . _toolbox_ of the Devil . . . Maybe the _jukebox_ of the Devil . . . The point is, _no accordions under my roof_!”

“Okay, okay . . . Yeesh, boss-man, chill out a little . . .”

“I’ve got my eye on the lot of you . . .” Stan warned them as he stalked towards the kitchen.

The shop was silent for a moment before Dipper asked, “Gruncle Stan hates tango music? Why? And, more importantly, why didn’t Mabel and I know about this _sooner_?”

“It is a mystery, dude. Always has he hated the tango and the accordions that give it birth . . .”

Stan returned without the bags of takeout, but was obviously still suspicious of Soos and Wendy. Glaring, he demanded, “And what are you all waiting for, you accordion-playing, tango-loving _mutants_?”

“Mister Pines . . . That one _hurt_ . . .” Soos said pitifully.

“Oh, _fine_ . . .” Stan sighed. “We’re having Chinese for dinner in the kitchen if you want some . . . What about you, Wendy? I suppose it’s in my best interest to make sure you’re not starving to death.”

“Well, my friends aren’t here yet . . . so sure. Love some.”

“Great,” Stan grumbled. “Dipping Sauce, why don’t you go get your sister?”

Mournfully, Dipper pointed out, “I don’t think she’s going to want to eat, Gruncle Stan.”

“Tough,” Stan asserted gruffly, though without much conviction. “She’s gotta eat _something_. She’s starting to look all waxen, and unlike _that_ guy—” Stan gestured at the life-size and glittery replica of himself that stood with an eternal thumbs-up in the corner. “—wax isn’t a good look for her.”

“Did you . . . get the dragon shrimp?”

“_Yes_,” Stan grouched. “Even though it costs about _twice_ as much as anything else. Which costs way too much anyway . . .”

“Good,” Dipper declared. “That’s her favorite.”

“Yeah, I know . . .”

Voicing some hope, “Maybe she’ll come down for that . . .” Dipper climbed back up the stairs. Once he reached their room, he knocked softly and called, “How’s getting ready for tomorrow coming?”

He received no answer, so he entered. Mabel was still in the corner. She looked at him once, then turned away.

“You’re not still upset at me, are you?”

“My _silence_ will speak eloquently for me.”

“Um . . . you’d have to not say anything for that to work.”

“You’re right . . .” she conceded. “_Curses_ . . . Well, it will speak for me starting _now_.”

“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want, but Gruncle Stan says you have to come down for dinner,” Dipper declared. “He bought some dragon shrimp. Your _favorite_,” he added temptingly.

This time, Mabel managed to maintain her scathing silence. Waddles, however, was already following his nose down to the kitchen.

“Soos and Wendy are eating with us. You could do your critically-acclaimed, Oscar-nominated dragon shrimp impression,” Dipper suggested. “Y’know. The one where you’re all ‘Roar! I breathe fire even though I live under water! How’s that even physically possible?! I look like I’m wearing a sweater because of the sauce they dip me in and the barbeque grill! I’m the most fashionable food ever! Roar!’ They’ll love it. Then you can get all inspired and make a new sweater with fire-breathing shrimp.”

“That sounds like a stupid idea for silly-heads,” Mabel retorted listlessly.

“Well . . . maybe that’s its appeal . . .”

“What would the point even be?” Mabel asked existentially.

“Are we talking about the sweater or the dragon shrimp impression?”

“_Everything_, Dipper. We’re talking about _everything_. What’s the point of any of it?”

“To have fun, I guess?” Dipper offered uncertainly. “I don’t know, Mabel . . . But I do know that you haven’t really eaten today . . . or this _week_. You must be hungry.”

“I’m not,” Mabel asserted.

Grrwgurwrp.

Trying not to grin, Dipper stated, “That wasn’t me.”

“_Treacherous_ _stomach_ . . .” Mabel muttered.

“C’mon. You’ll feel better after you eat something,” Dipper promised kindly. “Also, if you don’t, Gruncle Stan will spend the rest of the night grouching about how much dragon shrimp costs, and how we’re wasting his hard-swiped money. I am asking you, on behalf of Wendy, Soos, and myself, to come downstairs and take one for the team. One dragon shrimp.”

Mabel hesitated, then reluctantly relented. “Okay. I’ll sit with you guys.”

As they descended the stairs, Dipper mentioned, “By the way, did you know that Gruncle Stan _hates_ the tango and accordions? Like _as much_ as Pioneer Day!” he added emphatically. “But Wendy does ballroom dance—she even taught me some steps—and Soos can play the accordion really well. Once you start feeling better, I demand we take advantage of that.”

“How, exactly?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can think up some way of tormenting Gruncle Stan.”

“Why, exactly? What’s even the point?”

Dipper made no reply, but he cast a worried look at Mabel. This wasn’t like her at all . . .

****

Girlish shrieks filled the Babcock residence, but only Norman and Elaine could hear them.

{You watch talkies like this for kicks?! With the flesh-eating and the ax-swinging?!}

Norman shrugged blissfully. “It’s actually a pretty deep commentary on society. If you think about it a little.”

{Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need sleep, because I never will agAIEEEEEEE! WATCH OUT!}

When the movie had ended, Norman asked casually, “Wanna watch another one?”

{_Raiding_ _Revenuers_, no!} Detoby exclaimed. {Why would anyone want to see more of that?}

“There’s a sequel,” Norman offered temptingly. “It answers all the questions this one raised, like: why did Mina leave her career as a journalist, why did the real estate developers name a street ‘Terror Town’, and what was up with that dog with the shifty eyes?”

{Um . . . Do we find out if she chooses the earnest but laid back, shape-shifting swamp creature over that bluenose, dewdropper, incubus twerp?}

“Yep.”

Detoby chewed his sizable lip, then nodded. {Roll it. If she doesn’t choose the swamp creature, she deserves _everything_ that’s coming to her. I might even go haunt the author.}

“Too late. He died during the eighties. Choked on a martini olive, if I remember correctly.”

{Never did trust martinis . . .}

They watched horror movies until Sandra told Norman it was time for bed, and it baffled Detoby that Norman (and he, himself) found them entertaining. Almost as much as it baffled him that Mina chose the demon over the swamp creature. Then Elaine came to inform him that, {My grandson’s first day of school is tomorrow. He needs sleep, so you need to go home.}

{Aw, _raspberries_ . . .} Detoby said, clearly disappointed. {Now I have to amble home in the dark. Alone . . . After viewing all those terrifying talkies . . .}

{You’re dead. I doubt there’s much more an ax-murderer can do to you.}

“Can Detoby come back again tomorrow?” Norman asked hopefully. “There’re a bunch more talkies I want to show him.”

Elaine sighed. {If you want . . . So long as you call them ‘movies’ like a normal person.}

Doffing his hat, Detoby thanked her. {Your generosity of spirit is as great as your beauty.}

{And so long as he knocks talk like that off.}

{Would you have me lie to you, fair lady?} Detoby asked as he drifted towards the wall. {Bugaboo, I’ll be seeing you.}

Once he had gone, Elaine shook her head. {Annoying little man. But at least he’s friendly.}

“I like him. He’s funny in a . . . kinda unfunny way, if you know what I mean.”

{Not really. But if he helps you feel better about everything, I guess I can put up with him,} Elaine declared kindly. {Now try to get some sleep.}

“Love you, Grandma.”

{Love you too, Normy.}

****

Eleven o’clock had come and gone by the time Mabel finally fell asleep. Dipper managed to stay awake until then with reading, but it had been a struggle. Now, on tip toes, he crept over to her half of their room and carefully snagged her black sweater andskirt from off a heap of clothing. It was easy then to sneak down to the laundry room with it.

Dipper spent the next hour organizing her school supplies—separate binders for the A-day and B-day schedules, with the piglet folders for handouts, clip-in packets full of appropriate writing materials and other tools (like a protractor on the day with geometry). He even took a crack at decorating them, and reckoned them sufficiently Mabel-esque by the time the laundry machine had finished.

Hanging the sweater in front of a fan to dry during the night, next to Mabel’s ready backpack, Dipper nodded. He was tired, but satisfied. “That should be everything she needs . . . And this way, if she still feels like dressing like a goth tomorrow, at least she’ll be a clean goth.”

****

The night was very dark outside, something which normally didn’t bother Detoby so much; however, he found it a little disconcerting right now. He paused under a streetlamp and wondered, {Where do I go? Which joint is gonna be the _least_ depressing? Home? My grave—no, that’s out _tonight_. The bar? Well, it’s a Monday night, so no standup—just the people who go to get drunk on a Monday. Either that, or home . . . This is a bimbo of a choice, and _that_ is really depressing . . .}


	2. Chapter 2

“Why do you keep winking?”

But Hiya Kitten could only speak Japanese, so Norman didn’t understand her response. Grandma (a cat person in life and death) stroked the giant-headed cat on its pretty pink ribbon, causing the pixilations that formed its expression to change from (=^0.o^= <?) to (=^n.n^= <prrr).

Then Norman remembered he had come back to Fantastic Scholastic for a reason. He needed something to be ready for his first day at a new school. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but he knew he needed _something_. So he wandered the aisles while Grandma and Hiya Kitten followed.

“I’m not ready. Do you know what I still need?”

Grandma only cooed to the giant-headed cat, who merely replied, “Noramahnu tasu Deeparu wa supa kawaii (=^n.n^=).”

But it was so cold in the store. And the people he passed in the aisles were talking about him. They weren’t saying nice things. No one ever did.

“He’s a freak . . . I don’t want any classes with him . . . Maybe he’s dangerous . . . Weirdo . . .”

Norman tried to ignore them. But their voices followed him. And it was like a freezer in there.

Near the front of the store, he found Detoby dancing a jig.

{You should have chosen the swamp creature.}

“Me?”

{Her.} Pointing at Hiya Kitten.

“Noramahnu-senpai tasu Deeparu-chan wa supa kawaii (=^@.@^=).”

{I guess I can’t argue with that logic.}

“Do you know why it’s so cold in here?”

{Don’t go through the front door.}

Behind the ghost was the entry to Fantastic Scholastic. Whitewashed door. Brass plaque. #13.

“Why not?”

A voice answered from behind the door.

**LONELINESS**

Norman looked at the door. His father was standing next to it. “Maybe it would be better if you went through . . .”

“Do you really think that?” Norman asked. Feeling like he might cry if the answer was yes.

It was so cold.

“Yes . . .”

**NEVER** **AGAIN**

So cold.

{Don’t do it.}

**OPEN**

Norman reached for the knob. “Maybe it would be better . . .”

But before he could reach it, Detoby started growling rhythmically at him. “Rargh . . . Rargh . . . Rargh . . .” He reached out to Norman with a hand that was green with painted putrefaction.

Norman blinked. He sat up in bed. His alarm—a tombstone where the epitaph was the hour and the buzzer was an undead person (and not a “zombie”, because that word is actually quite offensive) reaching up out of a grave—informed him that it was a quarter to seven, and time to get up.

“Rargh . . . Rargh . . . Ra—” Norman shut off the alarm.

He had managed to sleep through most of the night for a change. His dream, however, had left him feeling unrested. And, to be honest, pretty pessimistic.

“Today’s gonna be a long one . . .”

****

Yet again (though it always felt like the first time), Mabel began to cry because she felt so alone. She couldn’t bear it in the now empty Mystery Shack; she walked back into town as she cried. The town had vanished, however; only the sidewalk remained—she had known it would be this way, and yet it still surprised her. Sitting down on the hard, cold concrete of Main Street, she cried harder than anyone had ever cried before. Not a single soul in the whole world but her. Alone. So alone. Always so alone.

Then, from behind her, she heard that voice which somehow spoke directly into her brain.

**LONELINESS**

Turning around, she saw the door with the plaque that read “#13” just standing in the air.

**NEVER AGAIN**

The voice coming from behind the door . . . was it an offer? A promise? An entreaty? An order?

Was it a threat?

**OPEN**

The voice from behind the door—the voice that was unfamiliar, and yet which Mabel had heard in her dreams every night for weeks now—unnerved her. So she ran back to the Mystery Shack.

But she could feel it following after her this time. Following close behind.

**OPEN**

She ran up the stairs. It was calling from the bottom landing.

**KIDS OPEN**

She ran to her room. It was calling from the hallway.

**“KIDS OPEN C’MON”**

She ran to her bed and hid under the covers. It was calling from the doorway.

“C’MON KIDS! Dipper! Mabel! Time to get up, already!”

Stan stood hollering in the doorway. From his bed on the other side of their shared attic room, Dipper blinked owlishly. “Gruncle Stan? Since when do you get up before us?”

“Since it became my state-surveyed responsibility to get you two gremlins to school. Move it!” he barked. “You’re not gonna be late on my watch, ‘cause I’m not gonna be under the state’s watch! C’mon! Up and at ‘em! I even made you some breakfast burritos.”

Dipper was ready for the day in minutes while Mabel moved much more sluggishly. He was therefore the first to discover (with some disappointment), “These aren’t breakfast burritos! This is just leftover Chinese food in a tortilla!”

“And?” Stan asked countered. “It’s got ham fried rice in it—so egg and basically bacon.”

Underneath the table, Waddles grunted something that was either “folder” or “bacon”.

“Yeah, but you’ve mixed _everything_ together,” Dipper said with a grimace. “That’s kinda gross.”

“Oh . . . Then you’re prob’ly not gonna like the sandwiches I made for your lunches . . .”

“Gah . . . Gruncle Stan, maybe it would be easier (and healthier and less _conceptually_ _horrifying_) if Mabel and I just got school lunch from now on?”

“And how am I supposed to afford that?” Stan retorted. “What with all the expensive organic ingredients today’s higher standards demand? I’m not made of money!” he said with a wild gesture that set his various gold chains clinking like a windchime.

“I don’t think it’s _that_ expensive, actually. Only like $1.95 a day.”

The math did itself in Stan’s head automatically. “180 days times $1.95 equals . . . $_351_ . . .” Weakly, he asked, “_Per_ _person_?”

“Probably.”

“$351 times 2 equals . . . $_702_! _Highway_ _robbery_!” Stan exploded. “What’s the school running? _A Four-Star restaurant_?! And how are single guardians like me—who struggle to make ends meet—supposed to afford these inflated prices?! What are tax dollars paying for, if not the children?!”

“Gruncle Stan, you’re a tax cheat; you haven’t _ever_ paid taxes,” Dipper reminded him.

“Yeah, but _other_ people do!” Stan protested. “Rubes and the like! What’re their tax dollars paying for, if not the children?! Which includes you and your sister.”

It was then that Mabel—dressed, but still sickly-looking—descended the stairs. “You guys seen my black sweater?”

Dipper pointed to the laundry room.

“Who got all my stuff ready?” she asked. When her brother shrugged, she said irritably, “I told you not to touch my sweater, Dipstick.”

“No idea what you’re talking about. Must’ve been fairies.”

“Heh. You _do_ realize you just called yourself a fairy, right?” Stan pointed out with a smirk. “Which fits, because you’re small, girly, and wear a funny little hat.”

“Why won’t people just lay off my hat?!” Dipper demanded in exasperation. “There’s nothing wrong with my hat!”

“So you’re not contesting that you’re small and girly, then?”

Sulking, Dipper grumbled, “Just wait ‘til I hit my growth spurt . . . See who’s small then . . . Vengeance will be _mine_ . . .”

Turning his attention back to his great-niece, Stan suggested kindly, “Mabel Syrup, why don’t you go brush your hair a bit? It looks a little . . . tangled. And maybe wash your face a bit, too?”

“Why? What’s the point?” she replied morosely.

“The point is mostly to _not_ look like I keep you locked in my basement. C’mon now,” he nudged her gently. “You’ll feel better after you do.”

Mabel yielded, but not with good grace. “No matter what I do, today shan’t be a good day. There’s no such thing as a ‘good day’ anymore . . .”

Once she was gone, Stan lowered himself into a chair with a heavy sigh. “What’re we gonna do with your sister?” he asked Dipper.

Picking through the contents of his breakfast burrito, Dipper shrugged dejectedly. “She never smiles anymore . . . Do you think she needs . . . like _therapy_, or something?”

“I sure hope not.” Stan shuddered. “How am I supposed to afford that on top of school supplies and school lunches and . . . and just _everything_? Dentistry, clothes, and consarned _dragon_ _shrimp_. . . Well, _hopefully_ having something to do every day at school will buck her up a bit . . .” He then looked at his great-nephew seriously. “How ‘bout you, Dipping Sauce? How’re _you_ holding up?”

Dipper blinked in surprise. “Me? I’m fine. I’m keeping it together. S-someone has to, right?”

“You’re sure? It’s just—”

“Yeah,” Dipper said lightly, but perhaps a little too lightly.

Stan grunted noncommittally. “Eat your breakfast, Dipping Sauce.”

****

“Eat your breakfast, Normy,” Sandra encouraged her son.

Not very hungry, however, Norman pretty much only stirred the cereal around his bowl.

“Don’t forget you have that doctor’s appointment today, dear,” she reminded her husband.

“I won’t. I won’t,” Perry answered shortly as he fussed with his tie. “You’re sure I can’t have—”

“No, dear. You have to fast for that cholesterol test,” Sandra preempted him firmly.

Grumbling, Perry left the kitchen for a room with a mirror.

“Courtney!” Sandra called upstairs to her daughter. “Are you almost ready?”

“_Ohmyfreakin’gosh_! Just give me _a_ _minute_! School doesn’t even like start ‘til _eight_!”

“But you need a good breakfast to study hard!”

While his mother was occupied, Norman poured the rest of his cereal down the kitchen drain.

{You didn’t eat much,} his grandmother (who was floating in a sunny corner) observed.

“Not hungry,” he murmured to her.

Sandra turned. “You say something, Normy?”

“Just talking to Grandma,” Norman explained as he slung on his backpack.

“Oh. You’re going already?” she asked. “If you wait a little bit, your father can drop you and Courtney off at the school. Can’t you, dear?”

Though food was forbidden him, Perry reentered the kitchen. Probably out of habit. “Hmm? Sure. I guess.”

“Rather walk, thanks,” Norman declined. “That way, I can talk . . .” And he stopped himself.

“Yes?” Sandra prompted him. “You can talk?”

Mumbling, Norman finished, “With some people on the way.”

A look of distaste crossed Perry’s face. “Living people or _dead_ _people_? Dead people, am I right? Well, just don’t make a spectacle of yourself . . .” he sighed.

In the end, Norman swallowed back down any response he had. What would’ve been the point? Instead, he wished his mother, “Good luck with that interview at the florist’s,” and left before she could finish assuring everyone that it wasn’t an interview _per_ _se_. She’d been telling everyone for the past week that it was just a little demonstration that she could make floral arrangements and care for live plants.

The air outside was cool, but warming gradually underneath the kind of clear, blue sky that one only sees in the mountains. It would be a day like late summer, with people out and about; right then, however, the sleepy streets of Gravity Falls were mostly empty. Anyone else living in that small town would have said they were completely empty, but Norman could see the spectral people invisible to most everyone else among the living—people who didn’t really sleep, and enjoyed watching the sunrise (though mostly because there was little else to do at that hour).

{What’s good, Norman?} a youngish, hippieish woman who had died in the sixties greeted him. {You off to school?}

“Yes, ma’am. First day today.”

{Ooo! Which means today’s the day the _girls_ get hit by those dreamy baby blues of yours.}

“Y-yeah, I guess . . .”

{Give ‘em one look, and they’ll be eating out of your hand. Just don’t break _too_ many hearts,} she said with a wink. {Peace, man.}

“I’ll try,” Norman said with a weak smile. “Peace, ma’am.”

Then there was another—a portly man in a Seahawks jersey hanging out on a front porch. {Morning, Norm. You mind opening this paper to the Sports Section for me?}

Norman obliged, though he kept an eye out for the current homeowner. “Anything to report?”

{Nah. The Seahawks aren’t off to a good start, and the Beavers have a crap line-up this year . . . But hey, one day the Seahawks will win the Superbowl, right?}

“Sure thing. Go Seahawks . . . and all that.”

Further on, Norman passed a residence with a greenhouse in its backyard—one that sheltered a small but lavish garden around a fish pond. As he did, a small Korean lady (who was so old she had probably been around when the Bear-Woman gave birth to the holy Dangun) waved energetically to get his attention. {Norman-oo! _Norman_-_oo_!}

Stopping, Norman bowed as he intoned, “Ahn-yoh-ha-seh-yo, Chiu Hal-muh-nee.”*

Grandmother Chiu, for that was what she insisted everyone call her (and preferably in Korean) clapped her transparent hands in delight. {Very, very good-oo! You remember very good, Norman-oo! You go to schoor?}

“Yes, I’m on my way now.”

{You take Korean? Good with ranguage; have good pronunsation! You take it! That is order-oo!}

“I . . . don’t think they teach it here.”

{Stupid-oo! And _racist_-_oo_! You go to principar; ter principar not to be stupid racist-oo!}

Norman laughed. Then he asked, “How are the fish?”

{They better since you wrote that note for me; fed _right_ amount _twice_ a day, not too much onry once-oo,} Grandmother Chiu declared with much satisfaction.

“Good thing I found that Korean alphabet online so you could show me which letters to write. That sure made everything a lot easier.”

{Yes, thank you for doing this-oo. Ko-mahp-sum-ni-dah.}*

“It was nothing,” Norman insisted. “Happy to help.”

{I know it seem rike _rittle_ thing to _you_, but _not_ _so_ rittle to _me_-_oo_. You good boy; have good heart to rook out for ghost who can do nothing arone-oo. Me, other ghosts—I know you do this, Norman-oo. Good boy with good heart-oo.}

Norman looked away modestly.

{We rook out for you-oo.}

“Okay,” he replied perfunctorily, uncomfortable before such praise. “But I should get going.”

{You take any crasses with my _granddaughter_, Candy-oo?} Grandmother Chiu asked quickly.

“I don’t know, actually. First day today, so I’ll find out.”

{You see her, you say ‘ahn-yoh’; make friend! She good gir, but sometimes shy-oo!}

“Okay. Ahn-yoh-hi-gyes-yo,”* Norman intoned as he bowed away.

Grandmother Chiu clapped delightedly again. {Come back soon! _I teach you more Korean-oo_!}

At the next corner, Norman was surprised to find Detoby leaning against a lamppost (or floating in that posture, at any rate). He nodded at the boy Medium like a contemplative bobblehead. {G’morning to you, Bugaboo.}

“Hey, Detoby. What’re you doing _here_?” Norman asked curiously.

{Aw, I’m too much a member of the midnight crew to go home before the break of day . . .}

“Okay . . . That was _cryptic_ . . .”

{Well, I didn’t feel like going anywhere. So I just let go of time and watched the stars. Did you know that they _arc_ across the sky? And if you just stare at them for a while, you see _thousands_ more . . .} Detoby recounted soberly. {It’s . . . _quite_ a sight . . . Makes a man really thoughtful, staring at the sky . . .}

“About passing on?”

{Maybe . . . But I’ve still got too many wises to crack first,} the Jokergeist declared resolutely. {Got to put a shine on that mug of yours, for one. With my ragging.} Honk. Honk.

Baffled, Norman repeated, “My mug? What?”

{Never mind. I see you know Chiu some Prunes over there.}

“Grandmother Chiu, you mean? Yeah. Met her a little after we moved here,” Norman explained as he resumed his progress towards the school. “She’s really nice.”

Floating beside him, Detoby smiled ruefully.

“Isn’t she?”

{Well . . . Alright, I grant you that I _was_ the first spook she met after dancing the Pineboxtrot,} Detoby began grudgingly. {But when I went to offer her a warm welcome aboard the afterlifeboat, she took it into her head that I was . . . It’s really all _applesauce_ . . .} Detoby continued with evident chagrin. {If you can believe it, she seemed to think I was some sort of . . . _goblin_.}

Norman snuck a glance at Detoby’s bulging features, and had to suppress a grin. “Y-yeah . . . _Unbelievable_ . . .” he offered (in a tone that _he_ _hoped_ sounded sympathetic).

{It _really_ is! I’m the _first_ to recognize that I’m no chic sheik, but at least I don’t look like I was around before the original Sheba!} And he honked his horn irately before continuing on. {And that sundried tomato of a Grandmother Prune still seems to think I’m going to start goblin hobnobbin’ whenever I’m aground her! Won’t even come near me without giving me the evil oriental eye!}

His cheek was cramping, but (by a monumental effort) Norman managed to hold a straight face.

{Keeps calling me something like ‘dock baby’ . . .} Detoby grumbled. {The nerve . . . If she weren’t a lady . . . And if _I_ was twenty years _older_, and _she_ was about twenty years _younger_ . . . Something the matter with you, Bugaboo?} he asked Norman solicitously. {Your face is beet red.}

“It’s nothing . . .” Norman squeaked. “Just . . . imagining the unjustness of your situation . . .”

{Well, I’m not losing any of the big sleep over it . . . So where we off to so early in the morning?}

Unenthusiastically, Norman replied, “School.” He pointed ahead, down a street that skirted Gravity Falls’ “downtown” (or its “uptown” if you pointed up it), to an old and big redbrick building.

{Ah . . . Ever notice that it looks a lot like a sanatorium?}

“Now, that’s unfair. I’m sure most sanatoriums looked much less depressing.”

{Ha! That’s a good one! I’ll have to use it someday! Speaking of good ones . . .} Detoby said with a gesture to the candy shop they were passing. {Do you know this place? The Sweet Tooth? Know what it _used_ to be?}

Norman looked in at the cheery but still unlit shop. “Isn’t this Doctor Pincus’s haunt?”

{You know the good dentist?}

“He always insists on checking my teeth when I run into him,” Norman answered, perhaps with a little exasperation.

{Did you know that about eight years ago, _this_ _was_ _his_ _office_?}

“Heh. Really? That’s ironic.”

{Proof that God has a sense of humor—}

{_No work of God, this_!} a stern, spectral voice interrupted. In high dudgeon, a dour little man with a white coat stormed through the door—_literally_ _through_ _it_. {But a machination of the _devil_!}

Waving amiably, Norman greeted him, “Morning, Doctor Pincus.”

{Mister Babcock,} he replied decorously. {I hope this morning finds you well.}

{Hello there, Bertie-boy!} Detoby said with the big grin of man who intends (and knows how) to get someone else’s goat—and, in fact, all of their goats.

{_That is Doctor Bertram Pincus, D.D.S., to the likes of you_.}

{That stands for Deceased Dentist’s Spirit,} the Jokergeist explained to Norman.

{It most certainly does n—}

{Hey, Bugaboo, when’s the best time to go to the dentist?} Detoby asked Norman. {I mean, besides never? At _tooth_-_hurty_!} And he honked his horn as loud as he could.

{I do hope you do not intend to corrupt the boy with your . . . _dental_ _levity_,} Bertram Pincus chastised Detoby with all the severe decorum of an archdeacon. In another age, he might have been a fearless missionary to heathen lands, a crusader against the infidels, or a martyr of the Reformation—respected and feared for his uncompromising piety; however, fate had seemingly had a higher purpose for Bertram Pincus. And so he had been born to two dentists, both Temperance Methodists, who had raised him in the fear of the LORD and the ADA. Then he’d taken residence in the godless (*shudder*) and dentistless (*two shudders*) town of Gravity Falls to preach their respective good words until a faulty valve on a canister of nitrous oxide ended his terrestrial ministry. {Remember, Mister Determined, that Christ is the _Word_; God is, therefore the _Mouth_—teeth, tongue, and all. And, by Indra’s incisors, God will _not_ be mocked.}

{Sure thing, Pastor Pearly-Whites. By the way, do you know what the difference is between a dentist and a baseball fan?} Detoby fired at him.

{I’m sure I couldn’t care le—}

{One yanks for the roots while the other roots for the Yanks!} But when neither the boy Medium nor the DDS showed any response, Detoby asked, {What? Nothing? But that was pure gold!}

“I don’t really like baseball . . . Too many bad memories . . .” Norman answered vaguely.

{You are here to test my patience,} Bertram Pincus stated with obvious restraint. {And I will _not_ give you the satisfaction of being provoked.}

Detoby challenged the deceased dentist, {What’s the best filling for a cavity, then?}

{Well, I personally find—}

{Chocolate cream!}

With a deep breath, Bertram Pincus focused on Norman. {Off to school then, Mister Babcock? Remember the best first impression is a bright smile. Speaking of, we have time for a quick check-up!}

“I don’t really have much time—”

{Not to worry; this will only take a moment,} the DDS declared brightly.

Capitulating with a sigh, Norman opened his mouth wide.

Producing a transparent mouth mirror and a sickle probe from the ether with obvious delight, Bertram Pincus initiated a quick inspection of Norman’s teeth. {Hmm . . . very good . . . I see you’ve started flossing regularly since we last spoke; your gums look much stronger. Keep that up—}

{Why are dentists the happiest husbands?} Detoby wondered rhetorically. {It must be because they’re the only ones who can get away with telling their wives when to open and close their mouths.}

{As I was saying, continue to floss regularly . . .}

“O’ay,” Norman mouthed awkwardly.

{Also, the teeth at the back of your mouth could use a little more attention when you brush—inside _and_ outside . . . Otherwise, well done! Treat yourself to some sugar-free gum, Mister Babcock.}

“Ca’ I clo’ ‘y ‘ou’ ‘ow?”

{Indeed.}

And, as Norman closed his mouth, Detoby sidled beside Bertram Pincus. {What does the Dentist of the Year get? A little plaque.}

{Isis’ eyeteeth, _that doesn’t even make sense_!} the DDS erupted.

Detoby honked for joy while Norman, in spite of himself, laughed.

And then, suddenly, a woman’s voice asked, “What are you laughing at?”

All three whipped around as one. Detoby whistled, {Gams up to her eyeballs . . .} Bertram Pincus snarled, {_You_! She-Devil of Tooth Decay!} Norman, his eyes wide as a surprised cat, muttered a quick “Bye!” before bolting down the street.

{Wait for me!} the Jokergeist shouted as he soared after him.

The woman cocked an eyebrow at the retreating boy, then glanced at the apparently empty air. “Hmm . . . That you, Pinky?”

{Rot in the fiery pit—the pit like a festering cavity in the mouth of the universe! Rot, like the teeth that you coat in sinful plaque _every_ _day_!} Bertram Pincus hissed at her.

“Was he talking to you? Can that kid . . . actually see you? Is that even possible?”

{Why?! So you can corrupt his innocent mouth, too?! Sugary succubus!}

Unlocking her door thoughtfully, she entered and glanced around. “You have a productive night, Pinky? Where’s the latest damage?” she asked the empty room cheerily.

{PINCUS! My name is PINCUS! Oh, how I _loathe_ you . . .}

****

The Mystery Shack was not a long distance from the school, but Stan volunteered to drop off Dipper and Mabel anyway in a rare act of gravuncular indulgence. “It won’t be so bad,” he told them. “You both already have friends here; you’re both sharp as the proverbial tack . . . It’ll be fun. Or at least, as much fun as school ever is. Am I right?”

“Good one, Gruncle Stan,” Dipper said charitably.

“Dang straight. Gotta stay hip to keep the younger ones coming in.”

In the backseat, Mabel looked quizzically to her brother. “_Hip_?” she mouthed.

“_No_ _idea_ what he means by _any_ of that,” Dipper mouthed back.

Oblivious to this exchange, Stan prattled on with forced joviality throughout the rest of the ride.

The roads (or the lack thereof) did not allow for a straight drive to the school, though, and so they were obliged to take a more roundabout route down Main Street. Mabel thought nothing of this until suddenly she felt everything in existence fall sideways together.

She looked, and recognized the door from her dreams. The #13. But why did it feel like the door was looking back at her? It was just a door; and doors are just doors. Everyone knows that!

Yet time was bending around it. Dipper was completely still, rolling his eyes at Gruncle Stan. Gruncle Stan was completely still, his mouth hanging open to say something of dubious meaning and even more dubious morality; but the sound had ceased to emerge from his mouth. There was no sound, as sound can only exist in a continuum.

And then:

**LONELINESS**

Mabel spun back to the door with a gasp.

But they were already rolling away from it . . .

“—knowing how to figure out what the teachers want, so you can give it to them. Course, the second key is doing it in such a way that they don’t _catch_ _on_ that you’re just giving them what they want so you can pass their class as easily as possible.”

“Did you hear that?” Mabel demanded quietly.

“Yeah, I can’t believe Gruncle Stan’d say something like that either,” Dipper said incredulously. “Well, actually I _can_ . . . but, y’know what I mean. . .”

Mabel bit her lip. Then she sat back in resignation. “So I’m going nuts, then . . .”

“What’s that?” Dipper asked.

“Forget it,” she said listlessly. “Doesn’t matter anyway . . .”

But before Dipper could interrogate her further, Stan announced, “Here we are, kids!”

****

Breathless now, Norman leaned against the redbrick of the school building.

{Why’d we scram like that, anyway?} Detoby asked at his side.

“I . . . I don’t know . . .” Norman began to laugh even as he gasped for breath. “It just seemed . . . like the thing to do . . . at the time . . .”

Detoby chuckled, too. {She must think we’re absolutely _screwy_!}

“Think _I’m_ screwy, you mean . . . She can’t see or hear you . . . So it was just me, standing there and talking to no one . . . then holding my mouth open like that for who knows how long, before running off the second I see her! She must think I’m totally nuts!” Still laughing breathlessly, Norman slid down to the ground. “I guess she can join . . . _everybody_ _else_ in town by now . . .”

{Everybody but us spooky mooks,} Detoby reminded him genially. {You’re aces in our books, kid. So . . . feeling better?}

Norman considered the question for a moment. “You know what . . . I _think_ I am. _Maybe_ today won’t be so bad after all . . .”

{Glad to hear it. And speaking of books . . . I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind . . . if it’s not too much trouble, of course—and I completely understand, if so . . .} Detoby tried to sound casual.

“What?”

{Could I maybe . . . tag along with you? I just don’t really have anywhere else to go, and you seem to be the only person in town who can stand me anyway,} the Jokergeist explained while striving not to sound too pathetic.

“Sure, if you want,” Norman acquiesced at once. “But, um . . . You know I can’t really talk to you in class, right? Or out of class, because I actually am _trying_ to keep people here from thinking I’m nuts.”

{Oh, sure! Sure thing! Maybe, if you feel like answering me, you could just pretend you’re writing down notes. Or something. And if you want me to buzz off, just say so,} Detoby added obligingly. {I’ll get out of that hedgerow of hair of yours the second you ask.}

“No problems then. And we—”

“I’m Gowney!”

Both Medium and Ghost froze, then turned to blink at the chubby boy who had stepped from behind the building’s corner to so insouciantly address Norman.

“Um, I’m Norm—”

“You’we the boy who fweaked out yestewday in Fantastic Scholastic!” Gorney declared blithely.

“Well, I guess, but—”

“Youw fweakishness in the stowe added to the twauma I’ve suffewed!”

Norman flinched, as if Gorney had struck at him. “S-sorry, I—”

“And I’ve suffewed twauma you can’t imagine!” Gorney went on cheerily. “I’ve seen things—tewwible things that leave scaws on the soul!”

Norman made no answer. He just stared at this fixed smile of a broken human being.

“Have a nice day, fweak!” Gorney bid him merrily.

“You t-too,” Norman mumbled automatically.

And then, once Gorney had returned from whence he came, Detoby whistled through his teeth. {Well, _that_ was one of the strangest things I’ve _ever_ seen . . .}

“Yeah . . .” Norman answered distantly.

{What’s eating you, Bugaboo?}

“Remember when I said maybe today wouldn’t be so bad? Well, _that_’s a sign that I’m an idiot. Today is gonna suck, and it was always only ever gonna suck . . .” Norman said, downcast.

{C’mon, you’re not gonna let that . . . _disturbing_ cream puff ruin your day, are you?}

Making a face, Norman straightened up. “We should probably go find my locker . . .”

****

The first day of school is like Hell. This is a fact. Being a new kid is like Hell. This is another fact.

But being a new kid on the first day of school is like Hell squared. It has all the same torments, but they’re inflicted by pretentious hipster demons who never shut up about “irony” and their “tastes” in music or fashion or (insert _anything_ here).

Standing outside William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School, among the milling crowd of teenage children, Mabel realized these facts. It was a sobering epiphany. She sighed heavily, “We are souls danged to heck, bro-bro. We walk through the valley of the shadow of pointlessness . . . And it _shan’t_ be a good day . . .”

Dipper winced. “C’mon, Mabel. No need for profanity. It won’t be _that_ bad.”

“Shan’t,” Mabel repeated definitively. “That so-called profanity is like a verbal exclamation point to my statement. That’s why I need it—to reinforce that it _shan’t_ be good.”

“No, it’ll be fine. Nothing can ruin it for us if we don’t let it.”

And then a figure like a rhinestone strode through the crowd, as if the universe had just replied, “Challenge accepted, mortal,” to Dipper. This pudgy, sparkly little figure was named Gideon Gleeful.

Dipper groaned when he saw Gidean. “Okay, maybe it _will_ be that bad . . .”

“_Mabel_! My _honeypot_! My _apricot_ _jelly_!” Gideon gush-drawled as he moved through the crowd. But he stopped suddenly before her, an ostentatiously showy contrast to her black-clad gloominess. “You’re not looking your usual effervescent self,” he observed solicitously. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Get lost, Gideon. The last thing she needs on top of everything is your brand of craziness,” Dipper growled.

“_Dipper_,” Gideon said, as if he were addressing some scum on his eye-blindingly polished shoes. “I must say, you’re looking _well_—probably as a result of bathing sometime in the _recent_ past. Kudos. Kudos for discovering the use of soap. I mean that. I suppose there might be hope for your existence among civilized society that isn’t European . . . which is to say, among _civilized_ society.”

“Please leave me alone,” Mabel requested hollowly. “Your shiny hair is giving me a headache.”

“It is?” Gideon inquired concernedly. “Well, I believe this might proffer a suitable apology.” From the pocket of his waistcoat, he drew a whistle. One inaudible toot later, the sun was eclipsed.

Dipper and Mabel craned their necks upwards. “What the heck?” Dipper wondered. Unfortunately, it occurred to him only too late what it was. “Oh n—”

WHOMF!

A shaggy mass of brown and white dropped squarely onto Dipper, plowing him into the ground. Oddly enough, as the wind was driven from his lungs, it made the sound “_My spine_!”

“WHA!” Mabel screamed, jumping back.

The shaggy mass lifted a head that was all jowls, and eyed Mabel with sleepy good-naturedness. “LE WOOF?”

“Bon chien!” Gideon praised the mass, patting its enormous head approvingly. “Mabel, my little jalapeno cornbread fritter, meet Francois the Saint Bernard. He was bred by Francophone monks in the Swiss Alps for the town’s Search and Rescue Patrol, but he’s rather partial to anyone who speaks French. N’est-ce pas, mon gros brave? N’est-ce pas?”*

Francois turned his droopy face to Gideon and happily bayed, “LE RUFF!”

“_My spleen_!”

“He’s . . . crushing my brother . . .” Mabel mouthed numbly.

“Oui, c’est vrai! Qui m’écrase cette racaille de Dipper Pines comme un bon chien? C’est toi!”* Gideon cooed to the (apparently not a bear but) dog. A length of wet pink flicked out, but could reach no lower than Gideon’s immaculately coiffed pompadour. LA SLURP! Unfazed, he used it to further sculpt his platinum hair, then turned back to Mabel. “If you just look in that cask around his neck, I think you might find something to put some prance back in your pants.”

Mabel was too shocked not to comply, though she did murmur, “Put what in my what now?” Unlatching the dog’s neck cask, she found a bouquet of eleven white roses around a single red one.

“Now, I know this might seem a bit forward given the rockiness of our previous courtship,” Gideon began suavely. “But I hope it can smooth over some of our . . . mutual misunderstandings.”

“F-_flowers_ . . .”

“And make clear that, though I cannot honestly say I hold your kin in the highest esteem—”

“The last time I held flowers . . .” Mabel whispered to herself, tears welling up in her eyes.

“—my feelings for _you_ have remained just as heartfelt,” Gideon insisted. “And, if this should make you any more inclined to accept an invitation from widdle ol’ me to the Homecoming Dance . . . well, I do declare that that’d be the sweet in my tea! Yes, it would!”

Heedless of him, Mabel intoned, “The funeral . . .” Then, with tears cascading down her cheeks, she shoved the bouquet into Gideon’s arms and fled into the school.

“I don’t understand . . . This is hardly the typical feminine response to a bouquet of roses . . .” Gideon mumbled plaintively at the world.

“LE BARK?”

“_And my . . . xiphoid . . . process_!”

In a flash of rage, Gideon rounded on Dipper (or, more accurately, on what little of Dipper was visible from underneath two-hundred pounds of shaggy Saint Bernard), and snarled, “_You_! _Explain_!”

“_Can’t breathe_!” Dipper wheezed.

“Well, Monsieur Pines, that is—as the French say—le your problem. _Now_ _talk_!”

“_Can’t breathe . . . so can’t . . . explain_!”

Pursing his pouting lips, Gideon considered that briefly. Eventually, he decided, “There are . . . _other_ means of ascertaining the cause of my sweet’s unusual behavior. I can afford to be patient. Besides, this is a good look for you. I think I’ll—”

“MISTER GLEEFUL!” a reedy woman’s voice bellowed.

Vitriol more venomous than a cobra’s fang crossed Gideon’s face. “Miz Atticals . . .” he hissed. “Shrillest of my nemeses . . .”

“_Thought my . . . fam’ly . . . was your . . . nem’ses!_”

“I _do_ have a life outside of the Pines family,” Gideon sniffed. Then, assuming the most angelic expression of innocence, he turned. “What_ever _is the matter, Miz Atticals?”

“Do not _dare_ attempt such presumptuous impertinence, Mister Gleeful!” A middle-aged woman in middle-aged tweed stormed towards Gideon, piping like an angry clarinet. “You know full well your infamous ‘cute routine’ has no effect on _me_!”

The vitriol washed aside the innocence. “Fine, then. What d’you want, you withered old hag?”

“Remove this canine from school premises _at once_, you wretched little goblin,” Miz Atticals ordered coldly.

Glowering at her, Gideon yielded. “Tu as entendu la vielle harpie, Francois. Va rentrer.”*

“LA BOWWOW!” And Francois bounded happily away.

Dipper hacked on air, “_Such pain_!”

“Why was that beast on top of this student?” Miz Atticals demanded wrathfully of Gideon.

With a serpent’s smile, Gideon replied, “He loves dogs. Francois was just a bit exuberant.”

She scowled at him. “That bought a week of detention for you, Mister Gleeful.”

“School hasn’t started yet, you rickety cow. You can’t assign me detention for this any more than you can tell me what to do during summer vacation. So _checkmate_.” And Gideon minced away, back among the milling students.

Miz Atticals glared after him, muttering, “Why does no one else see he is evil incarnate? Well,” she said briskly, turning to Dipper (still prostrate upon the ground). “Do you intend to lollygag all day, young man?”

“_I just . . . need a . . . minute . . . longer . . . too breathe . . . thank you!_”

“On your feet. ‘Twas but a pup—no Cerberus, that. Rise up and away to class!”

“_I would . . . really . . . prefer . . . to stay . . . right here . . . thank you_!”

With a dismissive sigh, “As you like it,” the reedy woman also departed towards the school.

Dipper breathed heavily for a moment, waiting for the feeling to return to his lower extremities. Meaning everything below his neck.

And then another voice addressed him from the crowd. It was like the sound of a bulldozer—a friendly, pink bulldozer. “Dipper? Are you alright? What are you doing on the ground?”

“_Hello_ . . . _Grenda_ . . . _I am_ . . . _trying_ . . . _to breathe_ . . .”

Beside Grenda (who was built like a young Wreck-It-Ralphina) was a smaller girl—one who was Korean and wore glasses. This was Candy. “Extension of the diaphragm will lead to an improvement of human breathing,” she stated. “You must therefore stand up.”

“_Can’t_ _stand_ . . .”

“Grenda, please assist.”

With one burly hand, Grenda lifted Dipper upright and set him on his feet. Dipper collapsed. Grenda lifted him again, and then supported him until he could take his own weight. “So what happened to you?” she asked. “You look like you were tackled by a bear.”

“_Funny_ . . . _you should_ . . . _say that_ . . .”

“Is . . . How is Mabel?” Candy inquired, soft and solicitous. “We saw her run inside the school—”

“And she was crying!” Grenda interjected brokenly. “She didn’t even stop to tell us why! And she ran straight into me, so it’s not like she didn’t see us! She’s not upset with _us_, is she?”

When Dipper had mostly caught his breath, he rasped, “Ever since our parents . . . since then, she’s been like this with everyone. All the time. So no, Grenda, she’s not upset with _you_; she’s just . . . _upset_ . . .”

“We’ve been really worried about her,” Grenda explained sadly. “But it’s like . . . Every time we’d go to see her, it seemed like she didn’t want us there.”

“She does not answer our texts, or speak for long over the phone, or come when we invite her for girlfriend activities,” Candy recounted despondently.

Hanging his head, Dipper sighed, “I know . . .”

“It’s like . . . like she’s not _Mabel_ anymore . . .” Grenda summed it up sorrowfully.

That struck Dipper hard, resonating in a part of him that had felt empty for weeks. It voiced perfectly a grief he had not yet been able to articulate—not for his parents, who were dead and gone, but grief for his sister, who was alive and yet (in a way) gone.

He nodded heavily. “You’re right, Grenda. It’s like she’s _not_ Mabel anymore . . . But it’s not because she’s upset with either of you. She’s like that to everyone . . . Even me . . .” he muttered.

Candy laid a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “What can we do?”

“I don’t know that there’s anything we can do,” Dipper replied defeatedly. “People keep saying she just needs time and space, but . . . I don’t know . . . I guess we just keep trying to include her?”

Grenda looked towards the school entrance. Most of the students had milled through it already, and their friend was lost somewhere among them.

Behind her, Candy still had her hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “And how are _you_ holding up?”

“Me?”

“Yes, _you_,” Candy insisted gently. “How is _Dipper_ doing in all this?”

With a watery smile, he answered, “Dipper is holding up, I guess. Someone has to, after all.”

“And that someone is you? Always?”

“Who else is gonna do it?”

Candy swallowed nervously. She met Dipper’s eye, and then looked away. “If you ever need . . . If you need help holding everything up . . .” She blushed slightly, to Dipper’s puzzlement, but continued, “You can always—”

BRRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG!

“Celtic Crosscut!” Grenda exclaimed. “We better hurry, or we’re gonna be late!”

Dipper jogged after her, calling, “Right behind you!”

Candy reached after him. “But . . .” She let her arm drop with a little curse. “_Aish_-_oo_ . . .”

****

Distress had given way to a kind of numbness by the time Mabel was shuffling to her first class. Around her, throngs of students went streaming past; but she was all but heedless of them.

Which is probably why she didn’t see trouble coming until she bumped into it.

“Watch it, peon!” the glamorous blonde (insofar as thirteen-year-old girls can be glamerous) snitted. And then she actually looked at the person before her. Her glittery-mascaraed eyes narrowed, and she hissed, “_Mabel_!”

Behind her, two fashionable minions echoed the hiss. “_Mabel_!”

“Pacifica,” Mabel replied unenthusiastically to the blonde. “Excuse me.”

But before Mabel could simply shuffle on, the blonde laid a forceful hand on her shoulder. “Wow, Mabel. I don’t think we’ve seen each other since the Waterski Stunt Competition, but I gotta say that you are looking _awful_. But really, it’s good to see you . . . looking this awful.”

With a snap of Pacifica’s fingers, the two minions began to cackle.

“Leave me alone,” Mabel mumbled.

“Aw, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing how repulsive you’ve become all morning . . .” Pacifica pouted. “And I gotta say, Mabel, you never fail to disappoint when it comes to repulsiveness.”

Mabel rounded on her morosely. “Why are you doing this? What’s the point, when the universe is going to swallow up all traces of everything we’ve ever cared about in a void of black nothingness?”

“Yeesh, Betty Buzzkill . . . Who died, anyway?”

A fresh tear welled up in Mabel’s eye. “My p-_parents_ . . .”

Pacifica blinked. “R-right . . . _Real_ funny . . .”

But Mabel yanked her arm away and fled down the hall.

Turning to her two minions, Pacifica asked, “You don’t think she was actually _serious_, do you?” Then, pushing aside all guilt, she quipped, “Sounds like a _mother_ of a problem, then.”

The laughs that followed the snap of her fingers sounded somewhat forced.

****

Mabel would later recall next to nothing of her first class (Geometry), for she spent most of it like a single point on an empty plane—one that doesn’t even bother trying to form the lines that can connect it to others. She felt too depressed to engage her neighbors or pay any attention to the lesson; in fact, she did not say a single word beyond “Present.”

Grenda and Dipper both had Gym. He turned out to be light on his feet, and was therefore not bad at soccer (which actually surprised him, as he had never cared that much for organized sports). True, he lacked long-distance stamina, but his investigations of Gravity Falls had made a sprinter of him. For her part, Grenda was an insurmountable goalie. She couldn’t wait for football and wrestling.

Candy was in World Geography, and showed every sign of excelling. She was going places.

Norman (and Detoby) found space near the back of the chemistry lab, sovereign domain of a half-mad looking teacher who taught (depending on the level of his students) “Basics of Science”, Chemistry (Beginning, Intermediate, and Advanced), and Physics (Regular and Advanced). They both tried to ignore the ghosts of several frogs while the teacher prepared a chemical demonstration that blew up in his face. By design; it was even rumored this teacher preferred singeing the hair from his face to shaving. Every student always paid attention because of this. Detoby commented as they left, {Let me tell you, I would have definitely paid attention in school if _my_ teachers had been allowed to blow things up. Though . . . how are you supposed to know when he’s pleased or angry with your work? Either way, he blows up at you!} Honk! Honk!

And then, as fortune would have it, they all shared the same second class.

“Welcome, one and all—welcome _all_ and _one_—to English Literature!” proclaimed the little, middle-aged woman in tweed. “I will be your guide in this _fascinating_, _palpitating_ subject—your mentor, your tutor, your instructor and professor! Together, we shall explore some of the _greatest_ examples of this millennia-spanning subject. It shall not be easy, but it shall be well worth it. And fun, too, if we all commit ourselves to the study . . .” she added, almost pleadingly. “Let us begin with some introductions. We shall each, in turn, stand here at the front of the class, and tell everyone else our name, something interesting about ourselves, and our favorite genre of literature. Include the author and a specific title, please. If possible . . .” she added. Again almost pleadingly. “Who shall go first?”

No one volunteered.

“Perhaps I ought to begin. Yes,” she decided. “And then we can start at the back corner and serpentine our way forward and across the room. It will be most convivial, I believe. Ahem. My name is Miz Gladys-Rachel-Angeline-Miltonia-Marie-Anna-Ruth Atticals. I used to be an associate professor of English Literature at Florida State University—”

Someone raised their hand and asked, “Excuse me, Missus Atticals—”

“Not Missus. Miz,” the teacher corrected the student.

“Sorry, Miss—”

“Not Miss. _Miz._ With a Z-sound.”

“What’s the difference?”

“To put is simply, ‘Missus’ means ‘married’ while ‘Miss’ means ‘unmarried’, but ‘Miz’ means ‘none of your bleeping business’. Understand the difference now?”

“Um . . . sure. I guess. How’d you end up here if you used to be a college professor?”

Miz Atticals flushed slightly. “There _may_ _or_ _may_ _not_ have been a scandal in which various _allegations_ involving the rare books collection, a lonely but brilliant and _byronically_ _tantalizing_ janitor, and a home-invading alligator were made against me, effectively _ending_ my career and obliging me to flee across the country and accept what work I could find (though _immensely_ overqualified) in this _backwater_ hamlet!”

The class ogled in disbelief, for the little woman in tweed was almost foaming at the mouth. Detoby leaned close to whisper in Norman’s ear—even though he knew no one else could hear him—{Cracked as a kangaroo’s bone china.}

Norman wrote on a corner of his notepaper, “No kidding.”

“Ahem. I think that sufficient for ‘something interesting about [myself]’, don’t you all? Yes. Now, moving on,” she said, calming herself with visible effort. “I would have to say that my favorite genre . . . is the proto-feminist-historical-romance-bildungsroman. Of course, my favorite work would therefore be Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. Obviously. It is simply the best of the genre, and so full of _passion_. I don’t suppose . . . As anyone here ever _read_ it? Or even _heard_ of it?” she asked pleadingly. “_No_?” She sighed, like a clarinet shedding one single tear from its spitvalve of sadness.

It was Mabel who had commandeered the back corner (all the better for brooding), so it was Mabel who had to go first. Dipper smiled encouragingly at her as she slouched to the front of the class, and Candy and Grenda as she passed by them, but to little positive effect. “My name is Mabel Pines,” she mumbled. “Um . . . I have a pet pig. His name is Waddles. I won him at a fair. Several times over. That’s pretty interesting, I guess.”

“And your favorite genre of literature?” Miz Atticals coaxed her.

“Um . . . I guess that would be . . . the teen paranormal romance genre,” Mabel replied in a lackluster tone of voice. “Especially the Crepuscule saga by Stukenthee Mire.”

Some of the girls in class woot-wooted this unenthusiastic pronouncement. But Miz Atticals, overcome by despair, covered her eyes and murmured, “Heaven help us all, it’s actually a _genre_ now! Surely the nine sacred muses must weep in their Olympian hall!”

“Um . . . I guess my favorite is Waxing Gibbous,” Mabel continued. “That’s the second book, where she finds out her second love interest, Pedro Monochango, can turn into a giant howler monkey.”

More woot-wooting. One girl even called out, “Team Pedro for life, yo! Vote for Pedro!”

“That is quite enough of that!” Miz Atticals upbraided the class. “Why do you like it, Mabel?”

“Because Pedro is so sweet and dedicated to Mona Goose, even though she doesn’t reciprocate his love. It’s just soooo beautiful, how he sacrifices everything for her happiness,” Mabel replied with more feeling than she had expressed in weeks. “All because he really loves her. With his whole heart. And when he says that—”

“Thank you, Mabel. Next.”

Candy sat in front of Mabel, so Candy went next. “I am Candy Chiu. I am interested in biomechanics for the improvement of the human being. One day, I hope to help develop cyborg technology that will allow us to spit in the eye of death indefinitely.”

{Cyborg? What’s she talking about?}

Norman wrote, “No idea.”

“Um . . . very interesting,” Miz Atticals conceded. “Very _unusual_ . . .”

“I enjoy Korean meta-sci-fi-fantasy novels, especially Min Hee-Jeon’s books. You would not know their original titles, but his most popular book has been translated as: Scions of the Rune-Circuits.”

“I, er, see. And why is this your favorite book?”

“It shows the almost magic of what science can do—how it is like the old magic, which required formulas and calibrated instruments and an advanced understanding of the world. I want to build a world like that,” Candy answered.

Grenda followed. She admitted rather shyly that she had a trophy for her apple pie recipe, and another for the time she suplexed a wrestler twice her size. “I don’t really have a favorite genre or book or author or anything,” she confessed self-effacingly. “But my sister’s an English major at Oregon State. Because of her, I’ve read Pride and Prejudice—”

“Really?” Miz Atticals perked up hopefully.

“—and Zombies.”

Miz Atticals deflated again.

“It’s really amazing how Jane Austin was able to create the Zombie Apocalypse trope back in like 1596 or whatever,” Grenda commented in admiration.

“Yes . . . Amazing . . . Please resume your seat. Next.”

The serpentine pattern reached the front of the room, then began working its way back down the next row. Several students later, it was Norman’s turn.

{Good luck to you, Bugaboo!} Detoby whispered.

Shuffling forward, Norman ran a hand nervously through his untamable spikes of dark hair. Only a single glance around the room was managed before he had his gaze fixed uncomfortably on the floor. “My n-name is Norman Babcock, and . . . uh . . . I l-lived in Massachusetts before my family moved here. It’s nice, I guess. Y-yeah.”

“And your favorite genre?”

“Um . . . s-supernatural thrillers and mysteries, I guess? My favorite is probably . . . Little Ghost by Chris Butler.”

There were a few murmurs around the classroom, but Miz Atticals seemed not to hear them. She looked rather pensive. “That sounds familiar . . . I might have read it . . . Oh, yes! Quite excellent!” she recalled with a flash of keenness. “Especially at the end, when the girl (Laika, I think her name was) and the boy, Thomas—everyone called him ‘PhanThomas’ in the village, as a jeering insult—”

“That’s the one,” Norman nodded vigorously.

“But that was masterfully written for suspense and fright!” Miz Atticals exclaimed.

“Yes! _Masterfully_!”

“One of the few books to actually scare me as I read it. You must like a good scare, I take it.”

“Mostly I like to see if the author gets it right.”

“Gets it right?” Miz Atticals repeated curiously.

Norman clapped a hand over his mouth. He had never meant to say anything like that; he had just gotten carried away. And now some students were murmuring amongst themselves again. Louder this time.

Then someone spoke up. “You’re talking about the ghosts in the story, right? You like to see if the author gets the ghosts right. That’s it, right?”

Flushing as read as his sweater, Norman said nothing. He stared at the ground silently.

Someone else said, “Oh, yeah! _You’re_ that kid who says he can see ghosts!”

Dipper looked up at that. He even craned around the students in front of him to take a better look at the boy at the front of the class. A boy with blue eyes, dark hair, and a red face. “A kid who can see ghosts?” he mused to himself.

Miz Atticals rose sternly. “What’s this rot about seeing ghosts? That only happens in the book; such phantasmagoria does not occur in the real world.”

“He talks to them! He talks to ghosts all the time!”

“Either that, or he talks to the air like a crazy person.”

An emotion spasmed across Norman’s downturned face, yet Dipper wasn’t sure how to read it. Fear? Anger? Shame?

“Settle down please! Settle down this instant!” Miz Atticals piped irritably. “Thank you, Norman. I look forward to discussing the book with you later. You may retake your seat now. Next student.”

Norman shuffled back to his desk, still red-faced, and then did not raise his eyes for the rest of the class. Occasionally he scribbled a line or two in his notebook (such as, “No. It’s all over. It really is.” and “The whole school will be talking about what a freak I am by tomorrow.” and “Just stop, Detoby.”), but mostly he tried to ignore the frequent glances that other students from throughout the room had to be shooting at him. Had to be, because Norman could feel them. He imagined them to be like long nails, pinning him down like a display—impaling him where he sat.

He wasn’t wrong; many a glance was cast at him from throughout the room—some curious, others suspicious, and others mocking. The most were appraising, however, and came from a few desks behind him. From Dipper, who mused to himself, “I think this warrants further investigation . . .”

When Norman scribbled down, “Will this class ever end?” Dipper shared the sentiment.

And then, suddenly, it was Dipper’s turn.

“My name is Dipper Pines. Er . . . Mabel is my twin sister. Twins are interesting, right? So . . . Well, I don’t actually have time to read a lot of books,” Dipper admitted sheepishly.

Miz Atticals sighed waspishly.

“Not that I don’t like to read; I’m just always doing something _really_ important,” he explained, his eyes coming to rest reflexively on Norman. “Like _all_ _the_ _time_.”

“And what, pray tell,” Miz Atticals cut it, “could be more important than cultivating your mind?”

“Investigating things,” Dipper replied vaguely, still eyeing Norman with focused deliberation. “There’s _a lot_ to investigate in this town . . .” Looking towards the reedy teacher, he resumed, “My mind is plenty cultivated; I even have a favorite book. You just won’t have heard of it, though, because it doesn’t really have a title. And the name of the author is one of the things I’m currently investigating.”

Dubious, Miz Atticals replied, “I see. And your favorite genre, then? Mysteries, I suppose?”

With a shrug, Dipper said, “Sure, I guess. Or webcomics.”

The class held its breath instinctively.

Slowly, as though she were repeating an expletive and striving to determine which syllable was the most offensive, Miz Atticals asked, “Webcomics?”

“They’re a genre,” Dipper contested.

“Only in the loosest and most degenerate sense of postmodernism-gone-too-far.”

Most of the class laughed. They didn’t understand most of the terms she tossed about like critical grenades, but they did understand an explosion when they saw one.

“But some of them are really great!” Dipper retorted. “_Dr. McNinja_ (that’s about a doctor who’s also a ninja, but basically wants to be Batman), _Girl Genius_ (steampunk 18th or 19th century ‘Europa’, ruled by mad scientists), _Homestuck_ (which is . . . too complicated to describe), _Slightly Damned_—”

“Young man, you have already dug yourself into a hole!” a scandalized Miz Atticals piped at him. “Casual swearing can only dig you deeper!”

“But that’s the name. You see, a girl wasn’t a good person in life, but she wasn’t a bad person either. Not really. So she’s sent to the outer most ring of Hell; she’s only _slightly_ damned—”

“Thank you, Mister Pines!” the teacher staccatoed while laughs continued to ring out around the class. Only Mabel and Norman weren’t laughing (the former because she just couldn’t see the point of laughter in the empty void of meaninglessness that was her life, and the latter because years of personal experience had trained him to ignore laughter in a public school—it was never for good cause). “That is abundantly sufficient. Please reclaim your seat . . . These hysterics are to cease NOW!”

Order was nominally restored and more-or-less maintained for the rest of the class. There was a “disageekment” between two students who chose comic books as their favorite genre (and it almost came to onomatopoeias over whether Marvel or DC was better), an exchange of curses in garbled Latin among several others regarding the Harry Potter series (over whether or not the Elder Wand had been shoved in at the last minute as a means to tie up the series), and a few more heaving would-be bosoms over the “epic” “romance” of the Crepuscule “saga” (the non-consecutive swoonings for which almost necessitated several calls to the school nurse). As for Miz Atticals, she looked increasingly despondent. Like she might burst into tears at any moment. When a student mentioned their collection of Wishbone paperbacks (hand-me-downs from an uncle) and how their favorites were the Shakespearian renditions (the originals of which they intended to read in full as soon as they could decipher the language), she looked like she might embrace them.

{Do you get the idea this broad is . . . a few cards short of a full deck?} Detoby asked Norman.

Norman scrawled a quick, “What?”

{I mean . . . doesn’t she seem to not be all there upstairs?} Detoby asked as he tapped his head. {Screwy? Loopy? More bats than bells in that belfry?}

Norman wrote out, “Oh. Yep.”

From a few desks back, Dipper wondered why Norman was taking notes during the ramblings of other students . . . And why he kept glancing at the empty air up and to his right when the clock was on his left . . .

All in all, everyone was glad when the bell signaled that class was over.

“You’ve got lunch next, right?” Dipper asked Mabel, even as he kept his eyes locked on Norman.

She shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”

“What about you two?” he asked Grenda and Candy. Norman was slipping his backpack on.

Candy nodded hopefully. “And you? I have brought enough kimchee to share.” But when Grenda grimaced, she protested, “You like kimchee; you always said so when you ate with my family.”

“That was because your grandma flipping terrified me! I thought if I didn’t eat it and pretend to like it, she’d chase me out of the house with her cane and never let me come back.”

Mabel agreed listlessly. “Yeah, it’s gross.”

Norman was shuffling towards the door among a press of other student.

Candy looked at Mabel, her tone almost betrayed. “You don’t like kimchee either?”

“Nobody from outside of Korea likes kimchee.”

“Fine then,” Candy sniffed. “More for me and Dipper.”

“Right,” Dipper agreed hastily, for Norman had almost filed out the door. “Um, save me a seat, will you guys? I got some important business to attend to first.” And he sprung away into the crowd.

Behind him, Mabel made a face. “Ew . . .”

Once the last of the students had shuffled from the classroom, Miz Atticals shut the door and leaned against it wearily for a moment. Then, from an inner pocket of her tweeds, she produced a flask. “What was it my Terence used to say?” she wondered vaguely. “The tease for when my days had been frustrating, and he’d plunk a bottle down between us?” Taking a draw (and another to keep it company), she recalled, “Ah, yes: ‘Malt does more than Miltonia can.’ And I’d say ‘Terence, this is stupid stuff’ . . .”

****

The floor of the Mystery Shack wasn’t dirty, but Soos was sweeping it anyway; there just wasn’t much else to do that morning. Everything mechanical was (for once) working properly, and the cabin’s shabby infrastructure was (surprisingly) holding firm everywhere, so he didn’t need to repair anything. No tourists had come by so far, nor were any likely to do so before midafternoon—it was the off-season, after all—so he didn’t need to entertain them, or guide any tours. There just wasn’t much else to do. Plus, it meant that he had an excuse to not be in the same room as Stan . . .

Sure, it was a little lonely without “the gremlins” running around the place. And sure, it was a bit dull without “rubes to fleece”. But Soos had never seen Stan (who was hunched over the cash register with a piece of paper covered in handwritten notes and figures) look quite so tense.

“Best just to stay outta his way . . .” Soos reminded himself.

The reason for Stan’s tension, however, was that all the figures on his paper had to be added up. It was one long calculation, and every second seemed to make it longer. He would remember clothes, then he would remember shoes, then he would remember that different shoes were needed for different things. Everyday shoes, tennis shoes for gym class, boots for winter, dress shoes for . . . reasons (“Dances, maybe?”). And all these had to be multiplied by two because he had two kids to think about, then multiplied by two again to factor in growth spurts (“Ungrateful wretches can’t stay the same size like normal people!”), and then multiplied by three because Mabel was a girl (“Probably needs like _three_ of _everything_, and is somehow gonna find a way to talk me into such feminine frivolity, so I might as well plan on spending the money now. Grumblegrumble.”) . . .

“So at $15 per pair of shoes, I’m gonna need . . . $15 times 4, times 2, times 2, times 3 equals . . . _$720 a year just for shoes_?!” Stan nearly choked in disbelief.

This continued ad infinitum. Clothes meant shirts, pants, skirts and dresses, socks, underwear (which would soon include bras—an entirely different source of stress), jackets (“Maybe not sweaters, since Mabel can prob’ly knit those herself, but yarn’ll still cost money.”), winter coats and gloves (“Mabel can probably take care of scarves, if she ever came outta this depression . . .”). Medical bills occurred to him next: medical checkups, dental checkups, orthodontic checkups (“Why’d it have to be _braces_?!”), and maybe therapy, too (and that was just if everyone stayed in perfect health). Food was mindboggling to contemplate, like the idea of infinity (“Which is probably about how much they’ll eat now that they’re ravenous teenagers . . .”). Then he’d think of the yearly cost of toothpaste and floss, toothbrushes, hairbrushes, makeup, art supplies, school supplies, books, Christmas gifts, birthday gifts, birthday parties, feeding friends that came over (“Like locusts!”), phone bills—

The phone rang. A girl’s voice, young and sweet, asked, “Would you like to donate to the—”

“I’M NOT MADE OF MONEY!” And Stan hurled the telephone through the window.

Reluctantly, Soos stuck his head around a door. “Um . . . Is everything alright, Mister Pines?”

Stan heaved a monumental sigh. “The phone is outside Soos. Fetch it for me, would ya? Then you prob’ly better do something about all that broken glass . . .”

While Soos hustled to do just that, Stan added “Window Repair” to the paper.

****

It was a madhouse in the hallway; packed with students from thirteen to eighteen—and every single one of them was trying to go a different direction at a different speed (and some of them even elected to just stop and chat with others they met right in the middle of traffic, like blithering dolts without the least consideration for the people trying to go somewhere)—it was a flurry of colors and a wall of noise. Dipper had to sidle, slink, and shimmy like a living noodle through it so as not to lose sight of the “Subject of Investigation” (as he was already thinking of this kid who could _maybe_ see ghosts).

“Subject is—‘scuse me—proceeding on foot—sorry, just needa slip past—down D-Hall . . .” Dipper reported clandestinely to himself. “I’ve lost visual! No, there he is; visual reestablished.”

But the lunacy of the madhouse subsided as they moved away from the cafeteria. In fact, soon the “Subject” was leading Dipper down a hallway that was comparatively deserted. Now the question was no longer “How to keep him in sight?” but “How to stay out of his sight?”

“Fifteen paces back at all times . . .” Dipper advised himself in murmur. “Don’t stare at him—maintain visual, but don’t stare . . . Walk close to the walls. Use the alcoves to classrooms . . . Like _now_!” And he dodged into one when the “Subject” shuffled to a stop.

But the “Subject” was just standing at a locker, depositing his backpack in it.

“Hmm, locker G-057 . . .” Dipper observed. “Could that be significant? Subject moving again . . .”

Now the “Subject” slouched upstairs. He passed students lounging in pairs or small groups against the walls occasionally. But they were an infrequent sight, and apathetic to his passing like only teenagers can be. They paid just as little heed to Dipper.

“Subject appears to be . . . Yes, Subject is entering library . . . _Perfect_ . . .”

Looking around, as if he was scoping out the place, the “Subject” paused just inside the library.

Dipper watched from the hallway, pressed against the wall to hide himself from view. At one point, the “Subject” seemed to be listening to something. But he made no response. Or maybe he did—like a gesture with his hand which the angle blocked Dipper from seeing.

“Flipping someone off?” Dipper wondered, though he could see no one else. “No library staff, no book enthusiasts, no . . . Well, I guess that’s all we’d find in a _school_ library . . . A ghost? Why would he flip the ghost off, though? That doesn’t make sense . . . Must’ve been something else . . .”

The “Subject” was now shuffling across the library, towards the high bookshelves that striped the room like William Blake’s tyger—segmenting it into portions that were visible from the front desk, and portions that were invisible from the front desk. Then he disappeared among them.

Following stealthily, Dipper crept among the shelves with bated breath. He tried once or twice to peer through the shelves, but moving books revealed a back that partitioned one side from another. It was his ears, he realized, that would have to guide him. And so he listened . . .

A voice—the voice of a boy about Dipper’s age—insisted quietly, “I’m just _not_ all that hungry . . . Yes, okay? Besides, I forgot to grab lunch money anyway . . .”

Very carefully, Dipper set his backpack down. Then, just as carefully, he sat down and leaned against the shelf. From that spot, he could hear the “Subject” conversing with someone who wasn’t actually answering while remaining completely hidden. If Dipper had to guess, he would say the “Subject” was just on the other side of this shelf.

“No, it _didn’t_ go alright. It was a _disaster_,” the other boy insisted tightly. “By this time tomorrow, everyone’ll be talking about what . . . what a _freak_ I am again. Just like before . . . Yeah, where we lived before moving here. But I don’t wanna talk about that, if it’s okay with you . . . Thanks . . .”

From the inner pocket of his vest, Dipper gingerly extracted 3. His cover was now rock solid—just reading a book in the library. Nothing suspicious about that. So while he listened to the one-sided conversation the “Subject” was having with . . . maybe-someone-possibly-no-one, he leafed noiselessly through the old, weathered pages of the journal.

“They both _were_ a little nuts, weren’t they?” That was said like an agreement. “Science guy nearly blows up the classroom, and English lady nearly breaks down in tears about books. Explosion, then implosion . . . I know! What was she expecting? We’re all like _thirteen_! But she did used to be a college professor, so I guess this must be a bit like having an astrophysicist teach basic multiplication . . . No, I’m pretty sure it _wasn’t_ because she’s a woman.” That was said with exasperation. “I’m pretty sure there’ve been women professors for a while now . . . Yes, _openly_ women . . . Life isn’t _Mulan_, y’know . . . It’s another movie—one about a woman who disguises herself to join the army . . .”

Dipper bit his lip as he turned the last page of 3. Nothing—there were absolutely no entries about people who claimed to speak with ghosts, see ghosts, or hear ghosts. There was a detailed entry about the trouble that ghosts could cause (and Dipper remembered only too well how dangerous and embarrassing it could be to tangle with one), but nothing to shed light on the “Subject”. Dipper was officially in uncharted territory; he had gone off the map, off the books, off the . . . other metaphor to describe that crap was getting real—off the reservation, maybe . . .

This knowledge was both exhilarating and alarming for Dipper. He didn’t know what to expect. Anything could happen now.

“It’s not the 1920s anymore, y’know . . .”

Dipper looked up from the journal. “_1920s_?” he mouthed in disbelief.

“Women run businesses now. They’re doctors and lawyers and professors, cops and firemen—er, fire_women_, obviously—politicians and soldiers, too . . .” A sigh of exasperation followed. “Yes, Detoby, they even _drive_ . . .”

Was that a name? The ghost’s name? “Detoby . . .” Dipper repeated slowly, barely audible.

“Well, okay, Mom _is_ kinda crazy on the road, but I’m pretty sure that’s just _Mom_.” That was added quickly, as an explanation. “Courtney? Well . . . she’s kinda crazy on the road, too . . . What do you mean ‘the prosecution rests’?! That doesn’t prove that women are bad drivers! Just that the women _I know_ are bad drivers . . . You keep talking like that, I’m gonna tell Grandma you’re being sexist. She’ll find a way to kick your intangible butt . . . No, she wasn’t a very good driver, either. But she was _old_ . . .”

The sound of footsteps made Dipper glance towards the front desk. A librarian was crossing towards the shelves. In one swift but silent motion, Dipper was on his feet and exiting them obliquely—walking away from the “Subject” so as to not be in his line of sight. He sat at a table with his back to the shelves, buried his face in 3, and strained his hearing. Sure enough, the librarian accosted the “Subject” a moment later.

“Look, it’s just a fact that old people are bad drivers. So Grandma—”

“Excuse me. This is a _library_.”

“Oh!” An exclamation of surprise. “S-sorry. I’ll just, um—”

“So please put away whatever phone you’re using, and respect the other people present.”

“Y-yeah, of course. I’m j-just . . . Actually, I was just leaving. Sorry for the d-disturbance.”

Within seconds, the “Subject” scurried past Dipper without a backwards glance. He then immediately left the library, and Dipper had to hustle so as not to lose sight of him.

****

Candy peered around the cafeteria with the barest trace of a frown. “Still no sign of Dipper . . . What do you think he could be up to?”

Mabel shrugged and picked at her Chinese food sandwich. It was a good thing she hadn’t felt like eating anyway. “He can do whatever he wants . . .” she added with strained indifference.

Taking a bit of food, Grenda chewed it thoughtfully. Finally, she mustered up the courage to ask, “So . . . how’ve you been?”

“How do you _think_?” Mabel replied sarcastically. “Everything’s been _sugar_ _and_ _rainbows_.”

“Okay,” Grenda relented quickly. “Stupid question. It’s just . . . you’ve barely spoken to us this past month, so . . .”

“Haven’t felt much like talking,” Mabel said quietly. “What would be the point? It can’t . . . can’t fix _anything_ . . . So what would be the point?”

“We’ve missed you,” Candy assured her gently. “We are your friends; we care about you. Being with you for support, _that_ would be the point.”

Gulping thickly, Mabel fought to maintain control of herself. She won, but it was a hard win. “Can we not talk about this? There’s no point to it . . . It’d just make me sad for no reason. My life is enough of an empty void of sadness already . . .”

“Okay,” Candy relented. “Just know that we want to be there for you.”

The three girls were silent for a moment. Then Grenda ventured, “So . . . um . . . Are you going _goth_ now?”

“Goth?” Mabel repeated with a little surprise.

“Well, it’s just . . . You’re all existential and pale and only wearing black. Kinda like my cousin, who’s a goth too,” Grenda explained. “Y’know, black leather and skull jewelry. Black makeup and white face paint—kinda like a freaky mime. Always reading some guy named Shawnpoll Sarter, or something.”

“Oh! I’ve seen some of those!” Candy said excitedly. “They look like vampires—not cute ones, but dark and _smoldering_ ones. Like the lords and ladies on some of your mother’s romance novels: ‘Lordly Passions’ or ‘Ladylike Behavior’ or . . . What was that other one?”

“I think it was ‘Courting the Courtly Courtier in Queen Victoria’s Court’ . . .” Grenda recalled.

In spite of herself, Mabel looked up. “That was my favorite one.”

“The gown that Lady Carnalita is wearing on the cover: gorgeous,” Candy declared.

“And Lord Lascivio looks so _hot_,” Grenda added mischievously.

Candy gasped in mock-scandal, “Grenda! You naughty thing!”

Mabel said nothing. But she was thinking everything.

****

From fifteen paces back, Dipper continued to follow the “Subject”. But there seemed to be no set destination this time—only aimless wandering down hallways that were never empty. Eventually, the “Subject” ran out of hallways, so he decided to walk out the last one.

The woods rose up at a small distance, and a football field lay between them and the school. With end lines and yard zones and score poles (at least, that was what Dipper thought they were called) marked in faded, flaking white, there was nothing particularly special about it. Yet the emptiness of it—for gym class was being held on the combination track and soccer field on another side of the school—seemed to appeal to the “Subject”. Or perhaps it was the bleachers constructed against the building, because the “Subject” stepped under them.

Which left Dipper with a quandary: if he did not follow (did not walk through the door and under the bleachers) he might lose the “Subject”; but if he did follow, he was very likely to be spotted. Either way, he would miss out on whatever the “Subject” might be saying to this “Detoby” of the 1920s.

“James Bond never has this problem,” Dipper grumbled to himself. “He _always_ has a means of listening in right when the villain makes some incriminating and overly detailed exposition.” In the end, Dipper had to suffer the indignity of smooshing his face as far back as he could against the glass doors. “James Bond never had this problem, either . . .” The angle barely allowed him to see around the wall, let him see the stretched out legs (in jeans) and the bit of red sweater that proved the “Subject” had sat beneath the bleachers.

Unsmooshing his face, Dipper settled in the corner and waited. The stake out continued . . .

But the minutes passed slowly . . . Extremely slowly . . .

“Well . . . Might as well compile some observations . . .” Dipper decided.

Extracting a notebook, he turned to the last page—not wanting to mix up his school notes with something important like this—and jotted down all he had seen in his organized style and tidy print.

Subject: Does he see GHOSTS?

Name:

Address:

Description: Same age as me. Apparently, at least (shapeshifter? no evidence of that) Dark hair, sticks up all whoosh. Pale skin. Kinda tallish. Light-colored eyes? (confirm) (probably not very significant) Seems to like being alone.

Vampire? (unlikely—walks around in daylight)

Daywalking Vampire? (not actually a thing) (I think) (I hope)

Zombie? (not surly enough, probably too young) (also not rotting) (or eating brains)

Psychic? (possibly—Gideon wasn’t, but there probably are real ones)

Possessed by Ghost? (what are signs of possession? must research)

Crazy? (maybe, but I hope there’s more to it than that)

Schedule: First Period,

Second Period, English with Miz Atticals (not Missus or Miss) Lunch after.

Third Period,

Fourth Period,

Fifth Period,

Sixth Period,

Seventh Period,

Eighth Period,

Observations: In library, talking to air (either Ghost, or just crazy) Called it “Detoby” (something like that . . .) Mentioned 1920s (said it isn’t them anymore, women do stuff now—they even drive) (sexist ghost?) Mentioned mother and sister and grandmother as bad drivers (may not be significant)

When forced from library for talking, went to bleachers. Again, seems to like being alone.

Rumored by other kids that he can see ghosts. WHY? (investigate word on the street asap) Didn’t deny, but looked unhappy in Miz Atticals class. Favorite book about ghosts? About person who sees ghosts? Don’t remember description or title, must find out (MA seemed to know and like it) (ASK) Massachusetts? (witch, maybe?) (boy witch—what’s the word? look up) (ghost is a familiar, maybe?) (INVESTIGATE BOY WITCHES OR WHATEVER)

“Hmm . . .” Tapping his pencil against his teeth, Dipper asked himself, “Did I see anything else—”

BRRRIIIIIINNNGGG!

Dipper nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t realized that time was passing so quickly; and, more importantly, he hadn’t realized that he had seated himself right beneath a bell. On his feet now, he resmooshed his face against the glass and saw that the “Subject” was clambering upright outside. Hurling himself into the nearest alcove, Dipper pressed himself against the wall and waited for the “Subject” to pass.

“The game of Follow the ‘Subject’ begins anew . . .” Dipper murmured to himself as he resumed tailing this boy in the red hoodie, with hair that was all whoosh. The boy who could possibly see ghosts.

The hallways were inundated as half the student body (the half who had been on lunch break) poured out of the cafeteria, but this merely served as a cover for Dipper’s surveillance. Not that he needed one, really; the “Subject” returned to his locker, retrieved his backpack, and continued on without so much as a backwards glance. Gym class was the next destination of the “Subject”, and Dipper inscribed this in his notes accordingly.

As it so happened, it was also the next destination of Candy and Mabel.

“Dipstick!” Mabel snapped indignantly, taking him so by surprise he nearly dropped his notes. “What happened? Where were you all this time?”

“S-sorry, I just lost track of time,” her brother replied sheepishly.

“You mean you were in the bathroom this _whole_ _time_?” she asked disbelievingly.

“The bathroom? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you run off to the bathroom right after class?”

“No. I was just doing . . . something important,” Dipper said evasively. “And lost track of time.”

Mabel pursed her lips. “_Important_, huh?” she scowled. “Well . . . Nutrition is important, too!”

“Did you actually eat something?” Dipper asked hopefully.

Flustered by hypocrisy, Mabel stuttered, “N-no, but at least I got a really good look at my food. You didn’t even get that. Because you were _too_ _busy._ Doing _important_ _things_. C’mon, Candy. We don’t wanna _waste_ anymore of Dipstick’s _precious_ time,” she declared sarcastically.

As his sister stormed off to the girls’ locker room, Dipper shot a questioning look at Candy.

Apparently, she was just as taken aback by this sudden outburst; she shrugged sympathetically at him, then ran to catch up with her.

****

Thousands of miles away, a woman who was no longer middle-aged walked through US customs with a fake passport. It listed her country of origin as Chile. This was false; she had never been to Chile. Her stated purpose was visiting family. This was also false; she had no family left—not in the US, not in South America, not anywhere in the world. But her fake passport was impeccable, and she was perfectly prepared for any questions the customs agents might ask her about anything at all. Especially Chile.

They asked nothing, however. Her passport was, after all, impeccable. And rightly so, for it was the best that the blood money of El Cartel could buy—a work of art. Felonious art, but art all the same.

Dressed in the blandest pantsuit imaginable, the woman who was no longer middle-aged left the airport by taxi. No one truly noticed her, not even the cabdriver. She was then driven to a residential area, walked from there to a used car lot with her sparse baggage, bought a comfortable-looking car that was in decent condition with full cash up front, and drove northward.

She had several hundred miles to cover before nightfall . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Before the bell had even finished ringing, Dipper was sprinting from his third period class and back to the gym. It was like running just ahead of a tsunami. And probably just as noisy as one, too. Once there, he pressed himself against a wall and let the flood of students swirl past him; he only hoped it would not block his view of the “Subject”.

Certainly it failed to block him from Mabel’s view. “What the hey-hey, bro-bro?!” she shouted suddenly into his ear (out of a necessity of being heard over the roar). Though admittedly, it pleased her to see him so startled he jumped into some random passer-by. “What’re you doing here?!”

“Um . . .” Dipper’s eyes cut back to the boys’ locker room.

“Did you come here to apologize for ditching me?!”

Dipper was so taken aback by the question—his attention focused somewhere else entirely—that he made the mistake of answering, “What? No.”

Whatever good a forced dose of endorphins had done her mood, it evaporated in an instant. Mabel’s eyes narrowed. “So what _are_ you doing here if not waiting for me?! Something _important_?!”

The “Subject” finally shuffled out of gym class, a distraction so engrossing that Dipper blundered right into the obvious trap. “Well, yeah. Listen, can we—”

“And what _exactly_ is more important than _family_?!” Mabel demanded accusingly. “What do you care about _more_ than—”

“_What_ are you talking about?!” Dipper exclaimed, baffled and hurt by this sudden bitterness.

Mabel opened her mouth to retort, and then shut it tightly. “Y’know what? I don’t even care,” she declared coldly. “Go do whatever.” Then she spun on her heel and marched away.

Torn, Dipper looked from one retreating form to another; his sister was going one way, while the “Subject” was going another. In the end, he dove back into the tsunami and followed the “Subject” to Geography. This investigation _was_ important, after all.

As luck would have it, Geography was also Dipper’s next class.

Unfortunately, Mabel’s next class (the last for the day) was also shared by Pacifica and one of her minions. “Aw, hon, you having a fight with your freak brother?” the blonde asked in mock sympathy. “It must be hard, fighting with the only person left in your freak family. Apart from your freak grandpa, that is. I mean, you did say it’s just freak you and your freak brother left, right? Or you could just admit that was a cheap ploy to win sympathy against me.”

Her spine as rigid as a bar, Mabel did not turn to look at Pacifica. She did not cry; she swallowed her tears back into the churning cauldron of emotions in her gut, walked to the furthest possible desk from Pacifica, and sat down. All throughout class, she wished the whole world would just disappear—wished she could just be alone with her sorrow and her fury . . . Even with her loneliness . . .

Dipper was, meanwhile, wishing his assigned seat was closer to the “Subject”. He could see that the “Subject” was writing down notes, but the teacher was saying _absolutely nothing worth being noted_; and he usually did so after cocking his head slightly . . . as if listening to someone beside him who was invisible to the rest of the class. Those so-called notes—Dipper wanted to see them more than anything in the world at just that instant . . .

He did see one of them, however. It was a folded piece of paper passed up from behind him. Noticing it was addressed “to ghostboy”, he unfolded it eagerly. It featured a sketch of a boy with hair that was all whoosh cowering in a corner from a ghostly Hiya Kitten. As far as Middle School sketches go, its composition and execution weren’t bad. A caption around the sketch, scrawled in an intentionally creepy script, read “IT’S COMING FOR EVERYONE!!!”

“What the heck?” he murmured to himself, completely baffled. He decided to hold onto it.

Sadly, it was only the first of many to be directed at the “Subject”, and the only one Dipper was able to detour from reaching its destination. Some were sent from the other side of the classroom, either passed from student to student or balled up and thrown when the teacher’s back was turned. Even those which were passed from Dipper’s side of the classroom now took a route which circumvented him. He could not stop them—neither to discover their contents for himself (and Dipper wanted vehemently to understand them), nor to spare the “Subject” their enigmatic tauntings.

Because Dipper, seeing the clandestine onslaught, began to feel bad for the “Subject”. It was obvious these notes were hurtful—the “Subject” angrily crumpled the first to reach him after only a moment’s glance at the contents, and then obstinately refused to even look at the eight or nine others that made their way to him throughout the period (either slipped onto his desk by a complicit neighbor, or lobbed into his irrepressibly spiky hair to be ignored as effectively as an unprovoked slap to the face). Yet what could Dipper do?

“I can’t call attention to myself, or I’ll blow my cover—blow the _whole_ _investigation_ . . . But this, this is just . . .” He sighed defeatedly. Reality dictated that all he could do in this situation was watch. Reality is the biggest of jerks.

It was, therefore, a huge relief for both of them when class (and with it, school) finally ended. Once that liberating bell rang, the “Subject” went to the trashcan and dropped the desk-delivered notes into it, then combed the others from his hair with his fingers. With that, he slouched into the hallway.

The behatted boy, on the other hand, waited just long enough for the classroom to clear, then dove in the trashcan to retrieve them all.

The teacher’s stare was practically tangible.

Looking up, Dipper mumbled lamely, “Just, um . . . just gathering these up for, uh, r-recycling. Yeah. Recycling. Planet’s not gonna save itself, am I right? So, um . . . see ya!” And he scurried away.

Pausing long enough to stuff the notes safely in his backpack (and readjust his hat), he lunged once more into the chaos in search of the “Subject”. He caught up with him soon enough, then followed him back to locker G-057.

“Dang. Wish I could stop by _my_ locker . . .” Dipper grumbled. The weight of his backpack was straining his shoulders, yet he’d have to carry it all day in order to not now risk losing the “Subject”.

And then they were off—exiting the building and heading east (the opposite direction of the Mystery Shack) as part of a long trail of homeward bound kids. Skirting the uptown of Gravity Falls (or its downtown, if you approached it from the other direction). Passing a candy shop, the “Subject” sped up slightly, but then made a gesture somewhat like a wave once he had passed it.

“Hmm . . .”

The trail began to thin out as kids broke off from it here and there, like tributaries joining a river in reverse. Soon there was almost no one left between Dipper and the “Subject”—no one whose presence could mask Dipper’s.

“Wish I could pass by Steve’s Shanty of Surveillance, Silver, and Slingshots . . .” Dipper said aloud, certain there was probably something in the oldest and proudest shop in Gravity Falls (est. 1863) that could help with this current predicament. But as luck would have it, he came upon a discarded copy of _The Gossiper_ (Gravity Falls’ own “newspaper”). “Yes! I have found favor with the stakeout gods!”

About one house-length up the street from a sorta park, under the shadow of the water tower (or the “muffin tower” for the odd graffiti adorning its facade), the “Subject” reached his destination: #23 Mist Tree Road. He let himself in with a key, and shut the door.

Dipper wasted no time in setting up camp under a tree in the sorta park. “From here, I have a clear view of the house while still remaining inconspicuous,” he congratulated himself. “The ‘Subject’ won’t be able to slip past unseen, but I’m as good as invisible once I prop open my paper. Hot dang! Dipper Pines, you are the best investigator ever.”

He failed, of course, to consider that it’s strange for a kid to sit anywhere with a newspaper. Especially when a composite sketch of that kid is splashed across the front of said paper with the caption “Boy Wanted for Questioning in Back-to-School Tackling”.

****

A long line of cars; an absolute disregard for any and all vehicular laws of nature or man; teenagers behind wheels, or worse (their parents)—so it was frankly a miracle there weren’t more under them. When Stan finally made his way through this engine of chaos, he reached across the passenger seat to open the door for Mabel.

“Hey there, Mabel Syrup!” he greeted her with forced joviality. “Um . . . Where’s your brother?”

“Dipstick has something _important_ to do,” she replied curtly. “He can walk back to the Shack.”

“Oh. Er . . . Okay . . .” Reentering the motorized insanity, Stan ventured, “How was your day?”

Mabel’s lip started to tremble, so she bit down on it angrily. “Terrible. _Everything_ was _terrible_.”

Stan grunted. “Yeah. Mine too. We even gotta replace a window.”

Surprised, Mabel glanced over. “Why?”

“Some maniac threw a phone through it. As if I had the money to waste on replacing windows,” he added in a grumble. “Well, since we’re both in terrible moods, you wanna get a blintz or something?”

“A blintz?” she repeated questioningly. “What the heck’s a blintz?”

“Never had a blintz before? Well, they’re six kinds of delicious, seven kinds of good memories, and you can tell me all about your day while we eat them. We’ll make it one of those bonding things. Best case scenario: it’ll cheer us up. Worst case scenario: it’ll fill us up with blintzes. Which is basically the best case scenario.”

With a shrug, Mabel answered, “. . . okay . . .”

****

For a long moment, Norman just leaned back against the door. His carefully constructed façade was slowly crumbling now that he was no longer propping it up inside. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

{Something eating you, Bugaboo?} the Jokergeist asked worriedly at his side.

Norman made no answer. At that moment, answers were impossible.

{That you, Normy?} his grandmother called. She floated into the front room, and then stopped. {Normy dear, are you alright?}

All Norman could do was shake his head. His movements were tense and jerky. Painful, almost. Then the dam broke; he slid to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

Elaine snapped to Detoby, {What’s the matter?! What happened today?!}

Flustered, he stammered back, {It . . . W-well . . .}

{Normy dear . . .} Elaine began placatingly, instinctively trying to wrap her arms around him. They phased through him. {Normy . . . Oh, Normy, it’s alright . . . Everything’s gonna be alright . . .}

Detoby just floated there, helplessly, beside them. He had no idea what to do or to say, so he did nothing but float there and scramble futilely in his mind for something to do or to say to make everything better. But in the end, there was nothing either he or Elaine could do or say in that moment; when a dam breaks, all one can do is wait for it to drain.

Finally, Norman’s outburst subsided into hiccups.

Elaine cleared her throat. {Rough day?}

Norman made a sound that might have been a laugh. If it was, there was no mirth in it.

{Rough . . . is a word you could use, yes ma’am,} Detoby filled in for him.

{Like what, exactly?}

{Like sandpaper in the commode.} And the Jokergeist weakly honked his spectral horn.

Elaine gave him a look. {Now is not the time for jokes.}

Detoby shrugged. {I’d say now is exactly the time for jokes, but I defer to your judgment.}

{What happened at school?}

{You know how kids are: cruel little bastards, especially the legitimate ones. Unkind words amongst themselves, unkind pranks when the teacher isn’t looking . . .}

“I hate this place . . .” Norman declared suddenly. Softly. Hopelessly. “I _hate_ it. I wanna go _home_ to Blithe Hollow . . .”

{Normy, Blithe Hollow wasn’t exactly kind to you, either . . .} Elaine reminded him gently.

“Yeah, but . . . I was used to it _there_ . . . And things weren’t so bad lately,” Norman affirmed. “Everyone was nicer since all that stuff with Aggie. And there was . . . Neil was . . .”

With that name, more emotion than one mouth can express choked him. It was like a lump—painful and impossible to dislodge—in his throat. He tried to swallow, but could not. He could not speak; he could barely breathe.

Animated by grandmaternal instinct, Elaine once again made as if to hold her grandson. Again, her arms passed insubstantially through his shoulders. {It’s alright, Normy dear . . .} she crooned instead.

“I miss him so much, Grandma . . . _So much_ . . .”

{I know . . . I know . . .}

Feeling awkward in the extreme, Detoby said, {Know what we could all use just now? A drink. Who wants a drink? Bugaboo? Elaine? I’m going to go play barkeep.}

Norman and Elaine both stared as the Jokergeist strode resolutely into the kitchen. Then they glanced at each other.

He came back out of the kitchen a second later. His expression was exaggeratedly tragic. {I just remembered that I can’t mix drinks. _Or_ _drink_. Literally can’t. Is it okay if I feel like crying now?}

Elaine sighed. {That whole sketch was a bit contrived. You gonna slip on a banana peel next?}

{Sketch? Madam, with regards to drink, a gentleman’s ghost never jests.}

“Ghost’s d-don’t joke about b-booze?” Norman sniffed half-heartedly.

{Never, or I would have made that joke myself.}

{You just didn’t think of it,} Elaine countered.

{Regardless of whether or not that’s true, a drink will make you feel better,} Detoby promised. {I’m not talking about alcohol!} he insisted quickly to the grandmother in the room. {Don’t start soda-popping at me. I’m just talking about something to remoisten the throat. Like milk, for instance. Come get yourself a few fingers of milk.}

Relenting, Norman rose to his feet. “M-milk comes in f-fingers?”

Nodding encouragement, the Jokergeist said, {That’s right—make jokes. Even jokes about me. Nothing’s too terrible once you can start making jokes. And once you put down however many fingers of milk you like, we’ll doll ourselves up and go paint the town read. Do whatever you want to do, Bugaboo. That sound like a plan?}

“Y-yeah. Sure thing.”

And even Elaine, in spite of herself, nodded in assent.

****

The nine other scraps of paper which Dipper had fished from the trashcan were nowhere near as artful, in his opinion, as the one he had diverted. Mostly they informed the reader that: A) ghosts aren’t real; or B) he’s a crazy freak. Most did not extend either of these trains of thought any further, nor did they include any kind of intelligible illustration, but the two best (cleverest and most hurtful) did. One featured a scribble of the “Subject” having a blah-blah-blah conversation with an empty shape labeled “NO ONE no real friends”; the creator had realized that no caption was needed. Subtlety is the essence of good art, after all. The other had opted for explicitness, but was peerless in its execution (which is perhaps the one defining characteristic of great art)—a portraiture of an open-mouthed “Subject” with arms all akimbo, and in the background there were others (a singular use of perspective) in a similar pose, all screaming “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAyousuckAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” There was a caption underneath it that read, “I shreik You shreik We all shreik cuz your a Freak! Sereously why you gotta be freaking out and freaking out every body in Fantastic Scolastic with your freakyness? Stop being a Freak and maybe get a Haircut. Sincerely someone whos not a Freak (you)”

Dipper shook his head in sad disgust. “Why’s everyone such a jerk to this guy? What’d he do?” He flipped through the others one more time, then returned to the last one. “Fantastic Scholastic, huh? First hint of a lead I’ve had all day. Perhaps that first note—the one with the ghostly Hiya Kitten—supports this . . . Fantastic Scholastic _does_ have an exclusive Hiya Kitten aisle . . . Hmm . . .”

Paperclipping the stack together, he attached it to his observations (which now included the address, the third and fourth periods, and a concise description of the harassment to which the “Subject” had been subjected during the latter) before adding “INVESTIGATE FANTASTIC SCHOLASTIC” to them in big, bold letters. And, just to be sure he didn’t forget, he circled it. Six times.

He glanced back at the house the “Subject” had entered. Still no activity.

“Hmm . . . Stakeouting is kinda boring, actually . . .”

“Stakeouting? Is that what you’re doing?”

“BWAH!” Dipper startled at the bulldozer voice (despite its being a pretty pink bulldozer voice) and spun around. “Grenda! Candy! Jeez, you guys scared me. How long have you two been there?”

“Not very long at all. We would have spoken sooner, but you were engrossed in your analyses,” Candy explained. “It would have been rude to interrupt.”

“Ruder than scaring me half to death?”

“Politeness sometimes requires sacrifice. Sometimes even a blood sacrifice.”

“And—not to be impolite, or anything—what are you two doing here?”

Grenda pointed to a house with an impressive garden. “We saw you from Candy’s and we were wondering what you’re doing out here. So what are you stakeouting?” she asked.

Tapping the stack of scrap notes, Dipper answered, “Remember that kid everyone is saying can see ghosts? Him.”

“Ah . . .” Candy nodded to herself. “I have seen him around the neighborhood a couple of times. Always by himself, always talking to the air . . .”

“Like to another person? Like to a _ghost_, do you think?”

Candy considered that. “I cannot really say . . . Once, though, I heard him outside our garden repeating Korean words. One of them was ‘_grandmother’_ . . .” she added emphatically.

Grenda gasped, “No _way_!”

Dipper looked from one girl to the other, not comprehending the significance. “So?”

“Candy’s grandma passed away _a few months ago_,” Grenda explained in a dramatic whisper.

“Okay, but she wasn’t _his_ grandma,” Dipper pointed out.

“You must understand, in Korean it is _very_ important to use a person’s title to show respect. And ‘hal-muh-nee’ or ‘grandmother’ is a title often given to older women—_even_ _when_ _you’re_ _not_ _related_,” Candy stated pointed.

“Really?” Dipper mused to himself. “So you think he might’ve been talking to your grandma?”

With a shrug, the Korean girl made clear that she was not sure.

Dipper snatched up his pen and began furiously adding Candy’s testimony to his observations.

Watching this questioningly, Grenda asked, “So are you like . . . stalking him?”

“_Stalking_?! I most certainly am _not_!” Dipper replied indignantly. “I am _investigating_ him.”

“Which means what exactly? You follow him around to see where he goes and what he does? Try to eavesdrop on what he says?”

“Well . . . basically, yeah.”

Before Grenda could inquire as to how that differed from stalking, Candy interjected, “Is there anything we can do to help? Oh, by the way, I brought you some snacks.” And she produced an apple and two packets of cheese crackers for him.

Dipper’s mouth dropped open. And, because he hadn’t eaten lunch (and was, he realized, starving), he started to salivate. It would have been an ugly combination if he hadn’t immediately crunched into the apple. “Fanks guyth (nomnomnom) Imf tarvin’!”

“I figured you might be since you didn’t come to lunch,” Candy replied happily.

“Mabel was . . . kinda unhappy about that,” Grenda mentioned with a hint of reproach.

The apple stopped halfway to Dipper’s mouth. “Mabel . . . Actually, guys, if you want to help . . . Could I ask you to go to the Shack and hang out with her? Keep an eye on her, y’know?” he entreated them. “I don’t feel happy about not being there to watch out for her, but I need to investigate this guy. It’s important. Can’t do both, right?”

Grenda’s lips were already forming the “why”, yet Candy beat her to the punch. “Of course! We’d be more than happy to keep her entertained for a while. Maybe we can even cheer her up a bit!” And she was already on her feet and tugging (though ineffectually) at Grenda to join her. “No worries! You just do what you need to do!”

With a dubious sigh, Grenda relented. Once they were out of earshot, however, she asked, “Why _exactly_ does he _have_ to investigate that kid? I don’t get why it’s so important to him.”

“Firstly, this is _what_ Dipper _does_—this is _who_ Dipper _is_,” Candy observed sagely. “He is a paranormal investigator. And he is good at it. And he loves it.”

“Okay, but—”

“When do you think he last investigated something?”

“Um, probably not since . . . before their parents died, I guess . . .” Grenda answered soberly.

With a nod, Candy agreed. “And why is that? Because he has spent all his time worrying about and taking care of Mabel. But it is exhausting him—didn’t you notice in school how drained he looked? Dipper needs time to be Dipper, just like Mabel needs some time with her BGFFs to be Mabel again. We’ll give them both what they need.”

“Hmm . . . You’re so wise, Candy. But you _sure_ you’re not just doing this because he asked you?” Grenda teased knowingly.

The faintest shade of pink might have tinged the Korean girl’s cheeks. Might have, but she had probably been expecting the insinuation. “Also, think how much . . . Imagine your parents both died. Your sister is feeling so terrible a grief, it’s like she’s not herself anymore. Then you hear about someone who can speak to ghosts. Wouldn’t you say to yourself, ‘This can really help my sister!’? So, if it’s true—if this kid really can see ghosts—Dipper must be thinking that it could really help Mabel to meet him.”

Grenda considered that. “Personally, I think I’d say to myself, ‘This can really help me!’ . . . Dipping Sauce must be feeling that terrible grief, too . . . He lost his parents, too . . .”

“Hmm . . . You’re so wise, Grenda.”

“Bigger girl means bigger brain,” she declared confidently.

Meanwhile, Dipper had devoured the apple (core and all—he would leave no trace) and scarfed both packets of cheese crackers; he might have even licked the packages clean, but suddenly there was activity at #23. In an instant, Dipper dove behind the tree to watch.

The “Subject” emerged, locking the front door behind him. Then, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his red hoodie, he headed back towards town.

Dipper waited until the “Subject” was passing Candy’s house before emerging to tail him. Didn’t want to be too close behind him—too conspicuous. He noticed that the “Subject” paused outside the Chiu’s garden, bowed and said something that was not in English, then looked momentarily confused. Looked from his left to the garden and back again. Twice. A moment later, however, Dipper had the distinct impression that the “Subject” was trying hard not to laugh at something. He turned suddenly, waved and said something that was also not in English, and continued into town.

****

{We’re _really_ stopping here?} Detoby asked gleefully as Norman approached The Sweet Tooth. {Do I really have an excuse to razz Bertie-boy _twice_ in one day? Rattle his—_razzle_ his cage!} Honk! Honk!

“He’s not a bad guy. Don’t be a jerk to him,” Norman admonished.

{Hey, he’s the tooth-jerk.}

{If you don’t behave, I will ground you,} Elaine threatened him sternly.

{My sweet lady, I’m a grown man. You can’t—}

{How much are you willing to bet?} Her voice was like the knitting needles tucked into her hair—spectral, but steely all the same.

Detoby wisely relented. {Yes, ma’am. I’ll behave.} He doffed his hat at the door and bowed low. {Beauty before age.}

The candy shop was not uninhabited when they entered; the owner was arranging a plate of homemade toffees in a display case near the register (where all the artisanal delicacies—fudges, brittles, handmade suckers and chocolates, to name a few—were kept) while two girls contemplated the dispensers mounted to the rear wall and a boy perused the racks of name-brand varieties. Of course, there was also the ghost of Bertram Pincus uttering dire and hellfire warnings to the two girls.

{What’s the goodie word, Bertie-boy?} the Jokergeist called amicably.

The DDS straightened up with a slow sigh. A severe remark was on his ghostly lips, but it was never delivered; it died the instant he saw the Medium. {No! _Nooo_!} he wailed in despair. {_Not you, too, Mister Babcock_!}

In spite of himself, Norman jumped back with an involuntary, “Wha!”

And while Detoby tried vainly to calm Bertram Pincus down, the owner glanced over at Norman. Only a glance was needed for her to recognize him—only a glance to see that he was startled by an apparently empty patch of air.

{Flee from this unholy place! Know you not that you gamble with your soul as much as with your permanent teeth?! Your _everlasting_ teeth?!}

Elaine advanced with an extended hand and an immovable smile. {You must be Doctor Pincus. I’ve heard so much about you! You see, I’m Elaine Babcock. Norman’s grandmother.}

{And you conduct him into this den of tooth-melting iniquity?!}

Elaine looked askance at the white-coated ghost. {It’s just a sweet shop, Doctor Pincus.}

{No, it’s not _just_ a sweet shop!} His exasperation was boiling; it was on the verge of frothing. {Why can’t you people see that candy is the ultimate gateway substance?!}

Seeing him look worriedly from one apparently empty patch of air to another, the owner asked, “Is everything alright?”

Norman whirled around, then blushed in embarrassment. “Oh . . . um . . . Y-yeah, thanks . . .” Before anything else could be said, he dove for cover among the racks.

{Bertie—sorry, I mean Doctor Pincus,} the Jokergeist began soothingly as he sidled next to his compatriot in death. He even effected slipping an arm over the DDS’s shoulders. {You’re concerned for the boy. I get that; I surely do. But he’s had a rough day—and I can vouch for that personally. We’re just here to get him a little something to buck him back up, and that’s all.}

{And when he is a grown man with a grown man’s appetites?} Bertram Pincus demanded, looking anywhere but at the prim businesswoman at the register. Even now, she was ringing up the purchases of the other boy—a vision of entrepreneurial loveliness and . . . and utter, dental depravity! Satan’s confectioner! {Will you ‘buck him up’ with alcohol or drugs or pro—}

{Not copacetic, Bertie-boy. Not _copacetic_; there’re women and children present.}

Of those women and children, only two were capable of hearing them: Elaine (who looked like she was contemplating stabbing the DDS) and Norman (who looked like he was regretting the decision to come here).

The door chimed as another person entered, but neither the ghosts nor the Medium noticed . . .

{Besides, there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself special after a rough day,} Detoby added. {Even you must have had something to cheer yourself up on those days when nothing went right.}

{Well . . . _Sometimes_ I would curl up with a glass of skim milk and ‘The National Geographic’ . . .} Bertram Pincus admitted. Slowly, nostalgia entered his voice. {In the best chair . . . the Reverie 2000D-LX with lumbar support . . . The chair heaven’s dentist must use . . . Bach in the background . . .}

Like a shadow amidst darkness, that other person stealthed unseen through the candy shop . . .

Meanwhile, Detoby, Elaine, and Norman all stared at the DDS. Finally, Detoby cleared his throat {Er . . . That’s all we’re doing here—reminding the NorMedium that, even if all the heart-beatin’ cretins out there don’t understand how swell and special he is, we spooky mooks sure do.}

Bashfully, Norman turned away.

{Aw, look at him! I’m embarrassing him, but you and I know it’s all true. So do you want to make him regret coming by here, Bertie-boy? Do you really want to be like the people who make him feel bad about himself for no reason?}

{Of course not! But, you have to understand, allowing such . . . such carnal indulgence—}

{Nothing carnal about it. Just maybe a little carmel.} The horn was honked.

{It’s pronounced _caramel_. Carmel is a mountain in the Holy Land. And the point is that it sets a bad, undisciplined precedent for him. And his teeth—}

{I can personally assure you,} Elaine interrupted solidly, {that there will be no downward spiral in his behavior because of this. And I will personally make sure he brushes his teeth after. Right, Normy?}

Norman nodded. Whether intentionally or not, he then looked at Bertram Pincus with the big, pleading eyes of a puppy. “I promise, Doctor Pincus, I’ll brush after.”

{And floss?} the DDS stipulated—his terms of surrender.

“And floss, too. Of course.”

{Oh . . . Very well,} he capitulated. {But I expect to see you tomorrow morning for a checkup!}

In the end, it was nothing on the central racks, in the rear dispensers, or the front displays that tempted Norman, but a cone of softserve from the machines set against the wall farthest from the door: a twist of peanut butter and chocolate.

Detoby was incredulous. {_Peanut butter ice cream_?}

“Shut up. It’s delicious.”

{Granted, I’d maim someone for just a taste of ice cream—even _that_ ice cream,} he admitted. {But still, after this whole production with Bertie-boy . . . _peanut_ _butter_?}

{It’s a kid thing,} Elaine said with a shrug.

{It’s much ado about peanuttin’ . . .} And he honked the horn as an afterthought.

{Shakespeare puns. Classy.}

And then Norman paid. The owner mercifully made no comments and asked no questions beyond register banter (though she looked like she was dying to do just that). With that, Norman left, Detoby and Elaine floating along beside him as he headed further into town.

From the door, Bertram Pincus called, {Don’t forget your teeth!}

****

As a master spy will emerge from the shadows to watch their target depart, so Dipper emerged from the racks of candy. Except no master spy as ever emerged from the shadows in shorts and a cap—it tends to undercut their dramatic mysteriousness, so they usually prefer dark coats and sunglasses . . . For that matter, no master spy has ever emerged from among racks of candy . . . But then again, it may just be that no master spy _is known_ to have emerged from among racks of candy in shorts and a cap. Professionals—_real_ professionals—probably don’t care about dramatic mysteriousness; they care about getting the job done while remaining totally undetected . . . Heck, they probably wear shorts and caps and emerge from various candy-related vantage points all the time, but no one is ever the wiser . . . That’s how you know they’re a _real_ master spy. Or rather, that’s how you don’t—

“_Focus on the job_, Dipping Sauce . . .” the self-styled master spy reminded himself, for even now his “Subject” was rounding the door of the candy shop and disappearing from view. “_Focus_ . . . Remember what you saw and heard; cement it in your mind until you can write it down . . .”

Every word—Dipper had heard every word the “Subject” uttered: the promise to brush and floss made to some “Doctor Pincus”, the assertion that peanut butter ice cream is delicious (“Which is an objective fact. Only the spiritually broken and morally bankrupt think otherwise,” Dipper said to himself. “So whether he’s really some sorta monster or not, at least he’s got good taste.”) made to the empty air. To anyone else, it might have seemed like complete gibberish, but Dipper had seen stranger things in Gravity Falls. Like the wall that was right in front of him, for instance. A wall that seemed to corroborate the gibberish.

This was not the rear wall to which was mounted dispenser after dispenser of colorful gummies, nor the front wall (or rather the front window) which displayed tantalizing artisanal confections, nor the far wall which offered a wide array of softserve (vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, mint, peanut butter, peach, pomegranate, raspberry, caramel, kraft real mayo, blackberry, mango, cookies and cream) under a banner which boasted “Best Ice Cream in Gravity Falls!” It was the near wall, a wall of framed photos and documents about one Bertram Pincus, deceased DD and alleged resident ghost of The Sweet Tooth. On it were hung many posters for candy (not unlike those posted over the other walls and rising above the racks like the flags of old ships engaged in an unending war on the open waters of consumerism), but these had all been defaced somehow. “Starburst! Makes your teeth burst!” said one, while another read “Hungry? Grab ANYTHING BUT a Snickers! Like fruit or a carrot. And read the Bible.”

Dipper had had plenty of time to study this wall while listening in on the “Subject”, noticing that all of these defaced posters were both framed and bolted down, like the other photos and documents. He had also read and reread the plaque at its center—a plaque which explained that Doctor Pincus continued his holy war against the forces of tooth decay even in death.

Now, after one last glance around the shop, Dipper snatched two Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and went to the register. “So . . . You’re haunted by a dentist?”

“That’s right. Came with the real estate,” the owner replied conversationally. “Doctor Pincus—or Pinky, as I like to call him. Almost like an old friend at this point, though I suspect he thinks of me more as an old enemy.”

“Hmm . . . Sounds kinda gimmicky to me,” Dipper said, eyeing her response closely.

“I know, right? It’s almost too good for business to be true!” And she laughed merrily. Genuinely, Dipper had to judge. “But it _is_ true. And once in a while, he makes himself known somehow. Knocks down some posters, or gets really creative and changes what they say. I think he has to save up his energy or something for it,” she speculated. “I always hold onto them when he does—think I might make one of the back rooms into a museum of his hauntings . . .”

Dipper glanced anxiously through the window. Though it had only been a few seconds since he lost sight of the “Subject”, his instincts were screaming that every second was a chance the “Subject” would lose him. Still, this was an invaluable investigative opportunity, so he risked asking the question, “You’re _absolutely_ sure it’s a ghost, and not something else? Have you ever considered having a . . . maybe a specialist investigate—a _psychic_, or something?”

The owner laughed again. “What? Do I need a botanist to tell me I have houseplants? Besides, who would I even call?”

“There must be _someone_ in Gravity Falls . . .”

And there it was: a hesitation, a flicker of the eyes in the direction the “Subject” had departed. “Maybe there is, but . . . Well, _I _know Pinky is here, so I don’t need confirmation. And business is already booming without some ‘official’ psychic accreditation, so I’m good.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” Dipper said quickly, also quickly handing over his money. “Thanks!”

And before the owner could finish wishing Dipper a nice day, he was out the door.

“Where is he?! Where is—ah! ‘Subject’ resighted, progressing further into town . . .”

****

Candy and Grenda reached the Mystery Shack at about the same time Stan and Mabel returned from bonding over blintzes (greatest—and only—real source of joy native to the Slavic world).

“Hello, Mabel! Hello, Mister Pines!” Grenda boomed to them.

“Hello, sweetie,” Stan replied before whispering, “Seriously does she have a throat condition?”

“Gruncle Stan!” Mable reprimanded him in a hiss. “Hi, guys. What’re you doing here?”

Candy gave her a determined smile. “We are here to cheer you up by any means necessary, because you are our friend. Resistance is futile against the forces of friendship.”

Exiting the car, Mabel began, “Guys, I’m kinda not—”

“We are prepared to kidnap you if necessary. Grenda, show her the restraints.”

Grenda produced a DVD (_The Time-Travelling British-Out-of-Water Stammeringly Charms a Quirky Career-Driven Journalist at Her Best Friend’s Wedding_) and a length of rope. Both were sparkly.

“As I said, resistance is futile. You _will_ be animated.”

“Oh, go hang out with your friends, Mabel Syrup,” Stan urged her kindly. “Have fun for a change, eh? ‘Cause for how much those braces are gonna cost me, I better see a lot of smiling.”

“Alright,” Mabel capitulated drearily. “But I’m not really in the mood for a rom-com right now,” she told her friends.

“Are you sure?” Candy cajoled her. “It’s _really_ good.”

“Listen to these great reviews,” Grenda enticed her. “The LA Times raves, ‘This film was definitely _meant_ to be in the romantic comedy genre.’ Eh? Eh? And the New Communist acclaims it as ‘Opium of the people!’ _Acclaim_. ‘Yeah, totally worth _five_ _stars_. Maybe even _six_,’ quips Hipster Review.”

“Those do sound like good reviews,” Mabel agreed. “But right now . . . I just couldn’t swallow saccharine when the world’s bitter like ashes. And a little salty . . . Also like ashes . . .”

“How do you know what ashes taste like?”

“I have an inquisitive nature, Candy. I know what a lot of things taste like.”

“Well, if you don’t wanna watch this, we can always look up goth fashions. Find a new look to go with your current . . . frame of mind,” Grenda suggested temptingly.

Intrigued, Mabel looked up. “Oooooooh . . . Why not? To the internet?”

“TO THE INTERNET!” Candy and Grenda chorused.

Stationed before the computer, the girls’ search took them almost instantly to Wikipedia and the “Goth Subculture” webpage. But this proved to be overly vague.

“Began in England during the early 1980s . . . yada yada . . . Imagery and cultural proclivities indicate influences from the 19th century Gothic literature . . . blah blah blah . . .” Grenda read off. “Gothic rock encompasses deathrock, post-punk, darkwave, ethereal, industrial, and neoclassical . . . None of this is very helpful. I mean, what does all this even _mean_?”

“Look right beneath it.” Candy pointed further down the paragraph. “Influences of dress styles include deathrock, punk, and Victorian styles, most often with dark attire, makeup, and hair.”

“Okay, but Grenda’s right,” Mabel insisted. “What does that even actually mean?”

“The repetition of deathrock’s influence suggests it is particularly important,” Candy reasoned. “We should search for ‘deathrock’ if we want specifics.”

Grenda hesitated. “But isn’t that . . . Deathrock—doesn’t that sound a little . . . not good?”

“It’s just the name of the genre,” Mabel countered. “It’s like a band name; it’s supposed to be a little weird. And besides, that sounds right for me,” she added morosely. “Death, the impending doom coming to swallow up all joy and happiness—lights that twinkle ephemerally in a universe of darkness.”

“Deathrock it is!” Grenda replied perkily.

A moment later, Mable pursed her lips. “There sure a lot of . . . mohawks and ripped clothes. . .”

“I think that would be the 1980s punk influence,” Candy ventured.

“Then we’ll just search for more recent stuff,” Grenda declared. “Deathrock 2013 . . .”

The girls read the search results. Then they reread them.

“There is now a genre called . . . ‘Excruciating Deathrock’?” Candy asked.

“Apparently?” Grenda answered. “Incorporating elements of . . . ‘heavy metal’ and ‘screamer’ into the traditional dark elements.”

“Just the genre names, guys,” Mabel asserted, but uncertainly. “Like . . . like a band name for all the bands together . . . Click on that band’s page and we’ll check them out. Maybe it’s perfect?”

Grenda clicked on excruciatingdeathrock.com, which brought up a lot of threatening-looking red and black splotches. After a moment, it resolved into a close-up of a demonic face, and words formed. “Asa Wroth and the Screaming Succubi”. To the far right were links to “About the Band”, “Song Lyrics”, “Music Clips”, and “Upcoming Events”.

“Go to the one about music clips,” Mabel directed. An instant later, she exclaimed, “Wow. There’s a lot. And this guy must be classy, because all the titles are in _Latin_.”

Candy adjusted her glasses to better see. “Malleus Maleficarum, Vade Retro Satana,” she listed. “Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Terribilis Deus, Cessa Decipere . . . And so on and so on . . .”

“Um . . . Go with that first one. Malleus Whatchamacallit,” Mabel directed. “That sounds nice.”

Grenda clicked, and a pop-up informed them that the contents were not appropriate for children under the age of eighteen.

Candy bit her lip. “I don’t know about this, guys . . .”

“_Relax_. Grown-ups put that on everything,” Grenda assured her. “That’s how they keep the really good stuff for themselves. That’s why my mom hides her romance novels and chocolates in a box under her bed that says ‘biohazard’. It’ll be _fine_.”

“Stupid grown-ups treating us like kids just because we’re too young to drink or vote or drive!” Mabel said indignantly.

“You’re sure it’ll be fine?” Candy asked Grenda.

“Positive. I _know_ these things.”

“You’re so wise, Grenda. Click it.”

“But turn it up first!” Mabel requested, excited in spite of herself.

“RHAAAAANOAWICHTHANEEDSOMPAEAEAEAENEEDSOMPAENSOMPAENEEDSOMPAEAEAEN!” Volume like a concussive explosion, blasting back all three girls! An inhuman voice of utter madness, which even the Elder Gods would have recommended seek anger management! Sounds like a universe succumbing to blunt-force trauma as a hundred thousand hecatonchires, with a hundred cricket bats apiece, beat it mercilessly! Guitars and basses being tortured to death by tone-deaf experts!

Pinned against the back wall, Candy and Mabel shouted, “TURN IT OFF! _TURN_ _IT_ _OFF_!”

Grenda clawed her way forward against the pounding onslaught of sound! “I’M . . . TRYING!”

“RHAAAAALMAKTHAWICHSCREAMYNAEAEAEAEMSCREAMYNAEMYNAEMSCREAMYAEAEAEM!” Enough flashing strobes to seizure a non-epileptic! Images of diabolical women tied to crosses while men in ecclesiastic costumes danced around them! A jeering man painted red with horns, a mowhawk—a punk devil of nightmares—and no clothing but a speedo lashing everyone! Flames of every color!

“HURRY, GRENDA!”

“ALMOST . . . THERE!” Grenda couldn’t reach the power button, but she seized the computer and clung onto it for dear life! The concussive volume blasted her back again, and she took the machine with her, ripping its chords from the wall!

The volume died and the screen went black. Candy and Mabel fell to the floor, while Grenda staggered drunkenly into the bathroom and vomited.

“E-evil . . . _Evil_ . . .” Mabel panted on her hands and knees. She couldn’t stop shivering.

“Never again!” Candy whimpered, curled up into a fetal position. “I am never entering any site that requires you to be eighteen ever again . . . Not even when I’m like 87!”

Now a shade of green, Grenda emerged from the bathroom. “That’s gonna replace all those weasel clowns in my nightmares . . .”

“I thought you said it’d be fine!” Candy whimpered accusingly.

“I thought it’d be like . . . _people kissing_! I wasn’t expecting the freakin’ Spanish Inquisition! Would anyone’ve expected the freakin’ Spanish Inquisition?!” Grenda asked defensively.

Lurching to her feet, Mabel leaned against the wall to regain her balance. “We will never speak of this again . . . Are we agreed?”

Genda and Candy both chorused, “Agreed . . .”

“I think . . . I need something to steady my nerves after that . . .” Mabel said queasily.

“Some of the . . . the lemon-lime flavor Pitt . . . That’ll help . . .” Grenda prescribed.

Mabel nodded, then shambled out the door. “I’ll get you guys some, too . . .”

She bumped into Soos in the downstairs hallway, who asked, “So, are you dudes okay up there? It sounded kinda like you were trying to usher in the end times.”

“We may have accidentally, er, _summoned_ a demon. But I think it’s trapped in the computer . . . for the moment, at least . . .”

“You need any help exorcising it? I’m pretty sure I got a crucifix around here somewhere. Keep it on hand in case we need to fend off a vampire,” Soos added pertinently.

Withdrawing three cans of soda from the fridge, Mabel replied half-jokingly, “I think we’re good, but we’ll shriek if we need anything.” It should be stressed that she was only half-joking.

Back in the attic, she distributed the soda and the three girls sat in silence to drink it. Eventually, Grenda broke the silence tentatively, “I think there are like _twelve_ different kinds of goth, y’know . . . Most of them aren’t like . . . _that_. My cousin isn’t—at least, I sure hope not, or I’m never gonna be able to look at my cousin the same way again . . .”

“It is true that Lady Carnalita and Lord Lascivio looked nothing like . . . _that_ . . .” Candy mused. “They were wearing more than body paint and their underwear . . .”

“So?” Mabel asked.

“So maybe we should give it another try? We’ll just avoid deathrock.”

Casting her eyes on the still dead computer, Mabel inquired, “How exactly? I’m pretty sure the computer’s possessed now.”

“A quick virus scan should settle that,” Candy declared. “Most anti-virus companies keep a staff of priest-programmers on staff to develop codes that banish cyber-demons.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Grenda said.

“Yes, well, I _actually_ _know_ these things,” Candy affirmed pointedly.

Mabel took a deep breath. “Well then . . . let’s give it another try . . .”

****

{So we’re headed to a bookstore to look at _joke_ _books_?} Elaine inquired heavily. {Like, books called ‘1001 Fish Jokes to Tell Just for the Halibut’? Does Detoby _really_ need to know more of those?}

“He said nothing cheers him up like a good laugh,” Norman said with a nod to the Jokergeist, who was dancing the Charleston even as he kept pace with them. “Seems only fair after what we all went through just so I could get some ice cream.”

{Yeah, and I want to go to the fabric store, but I’m not forcing that on the both of you.}

“Detoby’s not forcing me; it sounds like it might actually be kinda fun. Besides, you can go to the fabric store if you want. You don’t _have_ to come with us,” Norman replied evenly. “Just meet back up with us later.”

{Well . . .} Elaine hesitated. {You’re sure you don’t need me? This _is_ all about cheering _you_ up.}

“And look at me; I’m positively effervescent,” her grandson responded sarcastically.

{Don’t you sass me, young man.}

“I’m fine, Grandma,” Norman insisted. “Go gossip with the ladies haunting the store.”

{Alright,} Elaine decided. {I’ll be back in a minute.} And she bustled off in a different direction.

Detoby cleared his throat. {So am I to assume that—}

“She’ll be gone for at least an hour?” Norman finished his sentence. “Yeah, probably. So are we almost there, then?”

{Just around the corner—wide array of everything, and their range of joke books is the tops.}

“Could one say it’s ‘off the shelf’?”

{No, they’re all on shelves. It’s nice and neat—no penny-store operation, this. Spiffy and spruce as a Christmas goose.}

“I meant . . .”Norman sighed. “Never mind.”

****

From an inconspicuous distance back, Dipper watched as the “Subject” entered the combination bookstore and café that was Geoffrey’s Coffee and Novel Hovel (“Service with a Smirk”). Then, with his unread newspaper before him like a shield, he too entered—careful as a knight going in a dragon’s cave. Beyond a tiled space dotted with chairs and small tables (the café bar was to one side), he saw shelves crammed full of books organized according to genre. But, most importantly, he caught a glimpse of the “Subject” disappearing among them.

“Hmm . . . Follow him into the shelves and risk being noticed . . . or survey from the café (heh, I made a rhyme) and not hear anything?”

In the end, the decision was made for him. After about half-an-hour of sitting and waiting (enough time to get bored and do the sudoku—though with frequent glances towards the shelves), Geoffrey himself approached in pretentiously tight pants and styled facial hair. “Ahem.”

Dipper bolted upright. “Er, yes?”

“Do you intend to actually _order_ anything, young sir? The tables are for café _patrons_, and there are many who would like a seat.”

“Oh. Um . . .” Dipper reached into his pocket and extracted the change that remained him. “What can I get for . . . sixty-eight cents?” he asked sheepishly.

“A shot of cream and my withering disdain.”

“Can I . . . just get the cream?”

Geoffery sighed, then replied snootily, “Consider the disdain on the house.”

“M-maybe I should just go look at some books?” Dipper suggested.

“Look at or _purchase_?”

“Well . . . I can’t buy anything _right_ _now_, but I might spot something I’d like while browsing . . .”

Geoffrey sighed expansively. The man was a virtuoso sigher. “So be it. So be gone.”

Dipper slunk amongst the shelves.

****

Wiping a tear of laughter from his eyes, Detoby exclaimed, {_Classic_! What’d I tell you, Bugaboo? The people who write these books are _geniuses_!}

“I would’ve never guessed there were so many jokes about rutabagas,” Norman said as he flipped back through the pages of Cheese, Corn, and Ham: the Joke of Cooking!

{Ha! Those rutabaga jokes! I need to make sure I file some of them away for standup night. Especially—haha!—that one about the farmer and the Italian gypsy’s curse!}

“Good thing I listed rutabagas first,” Norman quoted with a grin.

{I hate to think what would’ve happened to my peanuts!} Detoby finished it.*

Then they both laughed out loud.

When they’d both calmed down a bit, Norman said, “Seriously, though, we can’t _ever_ tell my Grandma that joke. She’d kill the both of us. And don’t dare think she can’t find a way to kill you again.”

{True enough . . . True enough . . .} Detoby conceded. {A delicious dish, but one with some punch _and_ a kick . . .}

Norman made a face. “That’s my _Grandma_ you’re making food jokes about.”

{Hey, I’m not dead yet. Or rather, I am. And so is she, so neither of us is attached.}

“She’s _married_. To my _Grandpa_.”

{_Was_ married to him. Like me to my wife. But only ‘until death did us part’. See, it’s true when people say death is the ultimate release from pain and misery.} And Detoby honked his horn.

Norman looked away, murmuring, “This is such a weird conversation . . .”

{Don’t blame me for the fact that Elaine’s so radish-ing.}

“This subject is un-pear-able,” Norman countered.

Grinning, Detoby asserted, {I don’t carrot. A man corn nut be blamed for loving beauty!}

“Corn nut?” Norman repeated dubiously. “That was grain-ful to hear.”

{You butternut-squash my enthusiasm.)

“Ha! Nice—or rice . . . But why curry about what I say? Do you feel a-salted? By the brew-th?” Norman added smugly.

{Ooo . . . Two points for that one. But pepper me all you like, I still think she’s a sweet potato.}

“Crockpot.”

{Heh. Well, you baste be bacon down before I cutlet you down to slice. O-cake? Eh? Eh?}

Norman seemed momentarily routed, but the he rallied. “I can’t beet that. Crepes.”

{Ha!} the Jokergeist burst out. {_Crepes_! I love it! And speaking of things I love . . .}

{I’m back!} Elaine announced, floating through the bookshelves to join them. {Have you boys had a good time?}

{We’ve managed to repast the time,} Detoby replied with a cheesy grin.

Elaine eyed him dubiously. {Repast?}

“The lime just whisked by,” Norman added with his own cheesy grin.

Elaine eyed her grandson dubiously, and so noticed the book in his lap. {I see we’re making puns about food now. Joy.}

“Of cooking!”

{We’re so glad cucumber to join us, _ma_ _mean_-_yon_!}

{Cucumber? Let me guess: ‘you could come over’, right? And was that last one ‘mignon’?}

With a roguish wink, Detoby explained, {The French word for ‘cute’.}

{And what’s French for ‘If you wink at me one more time, I will stab you repeatedly’?}

{_Toosh_-_ay_.}

“Don’t let him steam you, Grandma. Everything is peachy.”

Burying her face in her hands, Elaine lamented, {It’s like I don’t even know you anymore . . .}

“But I’m just being widdle oat meal.”

{Oat meal?}

“Widdle ol’ me. Too much of a stretch?”

{Careful now,} the Jokergeist warned the Medium. {I think she might be getting fed up.}

“You think she’s getting jicama-ll these jokes?” Norman asked with mock innocence.

Elaine snorted. Detoby repeated, {Hicamal?}

“Two words together: jicama and all. The joke was that she’s sick of all this.”

{What in the jicama is a jicama?}

{It’s like a potato-apple,} the grandmother explained longsufferingly. {And yes, I am getting tired of puns, be they fish or food related.}

{Son of a fish!}

{I will skewer you,} Elaine warned Detoby. {And unlike you, I am not joking.}

{Aw, raspb—}

{I’m not going to warn you again.}

{Yes, ma’am.}

{Besides, speaking of food, Norman needs to get home for dinner with his family.}

Norman blinked in surprise. “It’s that late already?”

Elaine nodded. {After six o’clock.}

It was with some reluctance that Detoby watched Norman replace the joke book on the shelf. {I’ll have to come back in a couple nights to look at that one again—once I muster enough strength—}

“Mustard olive your forks, you mean,” the boy Medium interjected.

{Heh! Nice cream! Anyway, once I have enough to manifest, I’ll need to take a second look.}

Elaine cocked an eyebrow at her fellow ghost. {You’re going to exhaust yourself on _that_?}

{You might cast a kitten over them, but I think they’re the cat’s meow. And the NorMedium agrees with me. Don’t you, Bugaboo?}

Norman concurred, “They were punderful.”

Elaine rolled her eyes, then stopped suddenly in midair.

“Something wrong?”

Peering about the shelves, Elaine asked, {Does it feel to you like we’re being watched?}

With a shrug, Norman replied, “It almost always feels to me like I’m being watched. Usually because I am.”

{Hmm . . .}

****

Dipper flipped through the replaced paperback surreptitiously. He put it back in disappointment. “It’s _just_ a joke book . . . But he was _definitely_ talking to someone with a corny sense of humor . . . Detoby?” A quick note was added to his observations, reminding himself to investigate if Detoby liked corny jokes, before setting off after the “Subject” anew.

The most direct route back to the house of the “Subject” took them onto Main Street, something which did not perturb him until they were almost level with Fantastic Scholastic. At that time, to Dipper’s bewilderment, the “Subject” froze. He looked surprised by the store, nearly panic-stricken; his gaze kept whipping to the completely unremarkable duplex across the street. Suddenly, he sprinted the length of Fantastic Scholastic—not stopping until he had passed its corner. He seemed unwilling to look back once past it.

“Is he _shivering_? That’s curious . . .”

The “Subject” pulled up the hood of his red sweater and, with his arms wrapped around himself, marched stiffly on. He never did look back. Not even once.

“Curiouser and curiouser . . .” Dipper murmured to himself, eyeing the pastel yellow duplex. Aluminum siding. Two separate entrances for two separate businesses. Nothing strange about it. In fact, it appeared downright boring. “Haunted, maybe?” he wondered aloud. It only took one moment for him to jot down another note to investigate this duplex, and then he continued on.

Other than a brush with a group of kids (who shouted something which the “Subject” ignored), there was absolutely nothing to report of the return trip. The “Subject” walked back to a house that was now inhabited—a blonde woman cooking in the kitchen, a large man watching TV, and a blonde girl texting on the porch. The girl (seventeen or eighteen by Dipper’s estimate) pulled the “Subject” down into a hug before he could slip past, and then they both went inside.

“Probably done for the night . . . Unless he slips out at midnight to . . . I dunno. Eat brains?” Dipper posited without conviction. “Drink blood? Attend a coven? Doesn’t seem very likely, though . . . Seems to just be a regular kid—apart from all the talking to the air, and whatever that was in front of Fantastic Scholastic . . .”

Standing under his surveillance tree, he looked at the darkening sky. It was growing late, he was starving and exhausted from hauling his backpack around all day. Honestly, he wasn’t equipped for an all-nighter. Even more honestly, he didn’t believe it was necessary; he had no proof, but his instincts were telling him the “Subject” really was just a kid. Not a vampire, zombie, or boy witch (or whatever).

“Besides, I need to check on Mabel and Gruncle Stan,” Dipper admonished himself. “Time to call it a night . . . Time to head home . . .”

But retracing his steps led him past Fantastic Scholastic, where he now noticed the cameras. Cameras outside and cameras inside . . . Cameras that would have captured the “Subject” . . .

A memory triggered as he stood outside the door. “Didn’t I pass him going in? I remember . . . remember seeing hair that was all whoosh, straight-up . . . Hair like the ‘Subject’ has, but I don’t think I’ve seen on anyone else before . . . That was about four-ish, as I recall. Before a _most_ satisfying raid,” Dipper chuckled evilly to himself. “Well, those cameras _are_ mine by right of conquest, so I might as well glance over them while I’m here . . .”

He entered the store and strode to the manager’s office, which he opened without knocking.

“Yes? What is—_SWEET_ _NICOLAS CAGE ON A POGOSTICK_!” The manager nearly fell from his chair, he flinched so hard at the sight of Dipper. “Y-_YOU_!”

Dipper nonchalantly took a seat. “Glad to see I made an impression.”

“W-what do you want? I _already_ gave you _all_ the piglet things I have!” the manager protested. Unadulterated terror was etched deep into his face.

“I’m not here for merchandise.”

“Y-you . . . You’re not . . . You can’t be b-back to _burn_ _the_ _place_ _down_? _I’m calling the cops_!”

But before he could finish dialing, Dipper pressed down on the hook. “No, I don’t think you’ll be doing that. And I don’t plan to burn anything down. Not today, at least. I like the selection here.”

Capitulating, the manager slumped back into his chair. “Why are you here? We’re still cleaning the carnage you left behind yesterday! And that kid . . . that kid you tackled . . . The horror!”

“When you play the game of back-to-school shopping, you play to win,” Dipper replied coldly. “That kid made the mistake of being in my way. I would have been entirely justified in smiting him. Instead, because I am a merciful conqueror, he was allowed to live. I even let him keep his limbs.”

“The police are looking for you,” the manager stated almost defiantly.

With succinct grandiloquence, Dipper made his feeling on that matter clear. “Pff.”

“They have a composite sketch.”

“Which means you didn’t have any decent photos to give them from video surveillance.” Leaning forward, Dipper said in a low voice “Which concerns me. Which should concern you.”

“W-why?”

Dipper leaned back and contemplated the man with unblinking eyes, allowing him to marinate in his own fear for a moment. In all other settings, Dipper was just a kid trying to become an adult—timid at times, brash and reckless at others, but all because (deep down) he was still an insecure boy learning to assert himself in a man’s world. Every boy goes through this at some point. But here, in this school-supply setting, confidence radiated off of him like heat from a fire. Here, he knew who he was: Genghis Dipper, a ruthless tyrant before uppity serfs.

The manager swallowed dryly. “W-well?”

“It concerns me, because I was hoping to learn something conclusive from your video footage. About an incident yesterday.”

“You were the only incident yesterday,” the manager muttered bitterly.

“No, I was the only _cataclysm_ yesterday. Mind your tone, or I might decide I need pen refills. _Every_ _week_,” Dipper growled. “Now, before I came in—that was about four—was there anything bizarre that happened?”

“Um . . . Some kid had a fit of some kind. A seizure, maybe?”

“Describe him.”

“Young. Um . . . red sweater and hair that was . . . It like stuck straight up.”

A smile of satisfaction. “Do you know his name?”

“No. Why would I?”

Dipper stared intimidatingly at the manager just long enough to make him sweat. He conceded then, “Fair point. What happened with the kid?”

“He started screaming all of a sudden. Ran through the shop and hid in the Hiya Kitten aisle. Before you ask, I have no idea why. What’s all this about?”

“What’s it to you?” Dipper countered. “I’ll tell you what it is to you: It’s keeping me happy.”

With a gulp, the manager asked, “And you’d like to see the footage?”

“I’m _demanding_ to see it. Show me, and I won’t make any trouble and you’ll never see me again. For a year,” Dipper stipulated.

“Th-that’s _extortion_!” the manager explaimed.

“That’s obvious. And generous on my part, because I go through ink like you wouldn’t believe.”

The not so veiled threat worked, for the manager shakily logged-in to their security network. “Four-ish, you said?”

“About then.”

With that data entered, four smaller screens appeared on the manager’s computer monitor, and scrolling backwards soon revealed the crucial (if blurry) footage. Dipper watched, perplexed, as the “Subject” barreled blindly through the store, ultimately cowering in a corner. He seemed to constantly be looking at something—something that was apparently following behind him. But there was nothing on the screens; the “Subject” was running and screaming because of empty air.

The cameras had also captured the aftermath: a humiliated looking “Subject” being comforted by that same blonde girl (surely his sister), the large man (his father) trying to dispel the gawkers while the manager nearly went into hysterics, the walk of shame through check-out before dozens of staring kids and their parents. Intriguingly, the “Subject” visibly shivered as he was escorted out the entrance.

“And that’s when you make your . . . _grand_ entrance,” the manager noted caustically.

“He runs inside at the beginning, so whatever freaked him out so much must’ve been outside,” Dipper reasoned. “Show me the footage from the entrance.”

A few taps of the keyboard brought up a new screen, and Dipper watched as the “Subject” approached with his family, stopped suddenly just before the entrance, and stared across the street. Something beside him, either invisible or imagined, startled him into some passers-by. He produced a cell phone apologetically, then withdrew to the side of the door. Knowing to watch for it, Dipper noticed that the “Subject” remained focused on the same patch of air before him during this “call”.

But something drew the “Subject” back to the entrance, outside of which he stood as he stared (despite the apparent chill that made him shiver) across the street. Although the resolution was poor, Dipper had the distinct impression that something was transfixing him—something that gradually filled the “Subject” with dread. Then, all of a sudden, the “Subject” quailed into Fantastic Scholastic.

The manager cleared his throat. “Satisfied?”

“Not even remotely . . .” Dipper mused to himself. “What’s across the street, anyway?”

“Just two businesses that share a building. Accounting firm we use sometimes and . . . I dunno, travel agency?” the manager speculated.

“Been there long? Stable owners? Nothing unusual about the place—no mysterious deaths or unsolved disappearances?”

“What? No, they’re accountants and a guy with a bad hairpiece, for Nicolas Cage’s sake!”

“Not built on some sort of burial ground, is it?”

“To my knowledge, nothing has ever died there. Morbid little nutjob,” the manager muttered.

Dipper pressed on insistently. “Nothing weird about the place? At all?”

“They’re downright boring. I stress that half the building belongs to an accounting firm.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t have any more questions as of right now,” Dipper declared. “And my wrath has been forestalled. Kudos. Your earth shall remain unsalted.”

“Can your warlordship let himself out?” the manager asked sarcastically.

“Yes. Have a _peasant_ evening.” And with that quip, Dipper left as straightly as he had come.

Standing outside Fantastic Scholastic, he scrutinized the pastel yellow duplex across the street yet again. There was still nothing strange about it—it didn’t even have the decency to be eerily normal; it was just regular, everyday normal. Banal as its banana coloring . . .

“Didn’t I check here once? For some reason?” Dipper wondered aloud. “Another investigation, but this place was just as boring then, if I’m remembering right . . . Aw, it’ll come to me.”

And Dipper, finally, headed back to the Mystery Shack.

****

“How do you like dinner, dear?” Sandra inquired.

“It’s, um . . .” Perry jabbed at the salad on his plate—the salad that _was_ his plate. “Very leafy. The, er, dressing and the chicken don’t overpower the lettuce at all.”

Detoby eyed the meal over Norman’s shoulder. {Is there actually any dressing or chicken in it? How sad. This meal is de-dressing.}

{Looks like rabbit food to me,} Elaine commented. {Where’s the beef?}

“Glad to hear it, because we’re going to be having a lot more dinners like this in the future,” Sandra decreed serenely. “Doctor Phuntymmes told me about your visit.”

Perry looked up indignantly, as does a man in checkmate who wasn’t even aware that a chessboard was on the table. “He did?”

“Aren’t those like supposed to be confidential? HIPPO regulations, or like something like that?” Courtney asked.

“Your father was considerate enough to sign a spousal release.”

“I was?”

“It was among the stack. He said he finds the best way for patients to make improvements in their health habits is to have a support structure in their families, so he offers the option of conferencing with their spouses.”

“How very . . . technically legal of him.”

“He also made clear that if we don’t get your weight under control, it could endanger your life,” Sandra added soberly. “I love you, Perry, so I’m not taking that risk. Starting tonight we’re all on a diet. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for lowfat cookbooks.”

“Do I have any say in this?” Perry inquired grumpily.

“Not really, since I’m too young to be a widow, but too old find a second husband.” Turning to her son, Sandra then asked, “How was your first day of school?”

“F-fine.” Norman took a drink of water to clear his throat, then repeated, “School was fine . . .”

{Normy?}

“You like your classes? Make any new friends?”

“Sure . . .”

{Normy, that’s not what you told me earlier.}

“I think I’m full now. May I be excused?” Norman requested.

“Um, I guess so, if you’re not hungry,” Sandra allowed.

“Thanks for dinner, Mom.” And Norman was heading up the stairs before any more questions could be asked.

The ghosts followed him, however. {Why did you lie to your mother?} Elaine asked.

“I didn’t lie. Which movie you wanna watch next, Detoby?”

{Norman Babcock, you answer me right this instant,} Elaine ordered crossly.

Turning away from his shelves of movies, Norman answered flatly, “School was fine. Relatively. In my experience, it usually gets a lot worse.”

{That’s something you need to tell your parents,} Elaine protested.

“And what can they do about it?” he challenged his grandmother. “Didn’t help in Blithe Hollow, won’t help here. That’s just how life is—my life, anyway. And it’s not likely to change any time soon . . . So I’m gonna watch a movie now with my friend and . . . and try to forget that the world is cruel. Like we’ve been doing almost successfully all afternoon.”

Looking away awkwardly, Detoby asked, {Is that what you really think? Is your world cruel?}

“Yes. So you wanna pick the movie, or should I?” the boy Medium offered determinedly.

Sorrowfully, Elaine said, {Normy, you’re breaking my heart . . .}

“Sorry, Grandma . . . Which one, Detoby?”

{Um . . .} Looking over the collection, Detoby choose at random. {How about . . . that one: Communist Zombies from Outer Space. I bet they come from Mars—Communists in general, I mean.}

“An excellent choice. You wanna watch it with us, Grandma?”

Elaine heaved a sigh. {Sure, Normy . . .}

****

Thousands of miles away, the woman who was no longer middle-aged drove inside an empty parking garage. Or near-empty, for one other car was waiting for her there.

A heavy man in a luau-print shirt stepped from it. “You ah late,” he drawled.

“eSorry. There was the tráfico—more than I espected,” she replied in a sultry accent.

“There’s ahways the trafico in this city. Befoh the English settled it, the Indians were in gridlock. That’s a l’il detail you should remember, should anyone evah ask. It’s _American_ ta complain about it.”

The woman nodded. Under the bleached florescent light, she appeared preternaturally focused.

“Do you have mah money, senora?” the heavy man drawled.

“Si. Do you have my documentos, señor?”

“Si,” the heavy man replied with a droll smile.

They both laconically extracted brief cases from their cars. And guns.

The heavy man drawled imperturbably, “Mine’s foh insurance.”

“Qué coincidencia,” she replied just as imperturbably.

“That mean ‘what a coincidence’?” And when she nodded, the man guffawed. “Well, ain’t I cleverer than a fox in a rooster suit! Guess watchin’ all that ‘Dora the Explora’ with my granddaughter is payin’ off!” Chuckling, he continued, “Y’know what, senora? I _like_ you. _And_ I think you ah clever enough not ta try and double-cross me, so . . .” He laid is gun on the ground and kicked it away before advancing and gallantly laying his briefcase at her feet.

“Gracias. Your money.” She tossed hers to him. “I will not be offended if you count it, señor.”

“Frankly, senora, I wouldn’t care all that much if it did offend you.” And, clicking it open, he positively gloated over the dollars lining the briefcase.

For her part, she found a new life’s worth of papers: a birth certificate, a high school diploma, Medicare and Social Security cards, a driver’s license, and a passport. They were all printed on appropriately aged materials and slightly worn for added authenticity. They were not so much forgeries as the officially issued documents of an American citizen that happened to never have existed.

“Perfecto . . .” she murmured admiringly. “You are a artist worth every dollar espent.”

“Moocho grassiass, senora.” The heavy man clicked shut his briefcase and reclaimed his firearm. “Quality is mah hallmark, like discretion. Wherever you ah headed, I wish you safe and happy trails.”

“Igualmente.”

“Huh?” He paused in the door of his car. “Is that . . . ‘equally’? Like ‘same ta you’?”

“Yes, esame to you, señor. eSafe and happy trails.”

“Hot dang! Wait ‘til I tell mah granddaughter! Hasta la vista, la-dy!” he called as he drove away.

The woman who was no longer middle-aged then drove to the nearest motel, paid for a room with cash, moved the bed away from the window, drew all the drapes, barricaded the door, and rearranged everything to perfect ninety degree angles. Only then did she tuck her new documents—minus the driver’s license, which she slipped into her purse—into an intricately fashioned, little lockbox hidden in her luggage. Anyone skilled enough to access its bombproof locks or pierce through its adamantium siding would have been surprised to find that, prior to this, it had only contained a small burlap sack of yellow coffee beans. Odds are, that person would not be among the world elite (the great and powerful who know those beans to be among the rarest and most valuable substance on Earth), though they would certainly be in their employ.

The last task before surrendering to sleep was burning the Chilean passport. A regrettable task, for it was a work of art. Felonious art bought with the blood money of El Cartel, but art all the same. Flushing the (mercifully spotless) toilet disposed of the charred ashes that remained of this masterpiece, eliminating it from the world.

“Would have been easier to destroy a Picasso . . .” she murmured in her native Spanish. “Terribly asymmetrical . . .”

With her gun under pillow, she finally lay down to sleep. Apart from the occasional catnap, eighty-nine hours had elapsed since she last truly slept, though it only felt like twenty-four to her . . .

****

Trudging wearily up the steps to the Mystery Shack, Dipper was just in time to be bulldozed over by Grenda and Candy. “Hey, Dipper,” the latter said, while the former waved back to Mabel in the door. “See you tomorrow! And don’t worry; we’ll bring over everything we can find!”

“Okay . . . Sounds like it might not be terrible,” Mabel replied almost-excitedly.

“What things?” Dipper asked.

“It’s a _secret_,” Grenda replied. “To _everyone_. Which includes you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Glad to see you’re looking better,” he told his sister sincerely. She no longer looked like the walking dead. The walking half-dead, maybe, but that was a fifty percent improvement.

Mabel turned a cold eye on him. Then she turned around in a huff and shut the door.

“Well . . . Uh . . .”

“She _is_ doing better,” Candy insisted. “She’s just also still mad at you.”

A scrape and click announced that the door had just been bolted.

“Really mad, maybe.”

“At least she’s not crying anymore,” Grenda pointed out.

“Progress, I guess,” Dipper said with a heavy sigh. “Thanks for coming over. I’d better try the back door before she locks that, too . . .”

“See you tomorrow at school!” Candy called after him.

Dipper (fortunately for himself) beat Mabel to the back door.

Stan, who was frying something at the stove, remarked, “Well, look who the pig dragged in!”

Spinning on her heel, Mabel marched from the kitchen. “Waddles has better taste than that.”

“Yeesh . . . What’d you do to deserve that?” Stan asked his great-nephew.

“I don’t know! She’s just mad at me all of a sudden!” Dipper protested.

With a sagacious nod, Stan advised, “Get used to it, Dipping Sauce. Women’re always gonna be that way, and they’re never gonna tell you why. You can spend your whole life trying to figure them out, but you never will. Heck, you can even spend your life trying to figure out just _one_ of them . . . But you’ll never understand why she left you standing on that pier in Panama . . .”

“Gruncle Stan, are you alright? You’re using that flashbacky voice.”

Stan made no reply. He was staring back across thirty years. “Panama . . .”

“Gruncle Stan, whatever you’re cooking is starting to smoke. _Gruncle_ _Stan_!”

“Huh? Wha—Oh, that’s just for flavor. Like mesquite, or whatever . . . Besides, we want hotdogs to be a little black on the exterior, right?”

“Um. Sure. So hotdogs for dinner? Cool. I’m starving.”

At Stan’s feet, Waddles grunted something that was either “bacon” or “hotdogs”. Either option, given the pork content of both those meat-products, was disturbing to contemplate.

“What you been up to all day?” Stan inquired conversationally. “You got back kinda late . . .”

“Oh, just investigating paranormal stuff. Same old same old.”

Rolling his eyes, Stan asked, “That stuff again?”

“It’s important!” Dipper protested. “Paranormal stuff goes on around here all the time!”

“Yeah, and Waddles can fly,” Stan snorted.

“He did once. I’m still not sure why or how, though . . .”

“Right,” Stan retorted sarcastically. “Well, good for you getting back into that. Something to do instead of moping.”

“And Mabel was with Candy and Grenda all day, right?” Dipper asked hopefully.

“Seems to have been. I think she might finally be getting over . . . the hump, you might say . . . And without any therapy or anything either, so huzzah. Speaking of your sister, go grab her for dinner.”

It was in the living room that Dipper found Mabel, idly flipping through channels. “Hey.”

Mabel looked at him coldly, then looked away.

“You’re still mad at me?”

“No, I just have more _important_ stuff to think about than you,” Mabel replied snidely.

“You, uh, have fun with Grenda and Candy today? What’d you guys do together?”

“We did stuff to stuff,” his sister replied snappily. “Important stuff. Girly-girl stuff. Stuff that’s none of your business.”

Somewhat hurt, Dipper asked, “You’re really not gonna tell me, then?”

“Depends. You gonna tell me what _you_ did all day?”

“I . . . Well, I’m not really sure what I’m dealing with just yet—”

“Never stopped you before.”

“This is . . . different,” Dipper stated quietly. “I just . . . need a little more time first to investigate it on my own. You can understand that, right?”

“No. But I guess _you_ can understand why I won’t be speaking to you for the rest of the night.”

“Fine, then,” Dipper replied tersely. “But dinner’s ready, and Gruncle Stan says to come eat.”

Mabel came, but (true to her pronouncement), she didn’t say a single word to or even look at her brother for the rest of the night. And when he switched off the light in their attic bedroom and said (rather forlornly), “Goodnight, sis . . . Love you . . .” she made no reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Wednesday morning for Norman was much as Tuesday morning had been. The prospect of another day at school filled him with anything but enthusiasm, yet he departed stoically. He and Detoby (who met Norman outside the sorta park again) greeted every ghost they met en route, including Grandmother Chiu and Bertram Pincus. Norman had to subject himself to another dental examination, but managed to finish before the owner arrived to open shop. “Least I can start off the day without people staring at me . . . for standing with my mouth open in the middle of the sidewalk . . . My life is just so weird . . .”

In the Pines household, it was slightly different. Mabel was moodier than before, but at least appeared less sickly (even if she was wearing the same dour ensemble); she still refused to even look at her brother. Dipper, for his part, was more distracted; the investigation had him eager to reach school—he had to be in position to tail the “Subject” immediately upon arrival. Stan was burning breakfast instead of making (an affront to the very idea of) lunch; he dropped them off as before and, though it looked as painful as if he was pulling out his own pancreas, handed them both two dollars for lunch. “Now, I expect the change back from both of you!” he shouted after them. “Don’t dare try to rob me, ‘cause _I know where you both sleep_!”

Mabel couldn’t help but notice the door on Main Street failed to bend all reality on this passing; it just stood there like a totally unremarkable door when they passed. Maybe she thought she heard something whisper icily as they passed it, but that could also have been Gruncle Stan jumping the curb. Had it been like that—non-reality-bending—yesterday afternoon? Getting blintzes with Gruncle Stan had meant making a wide circuit around town, however; they had never even passed it. She might have considered mentioning it to Dipper, but he vanished into the crowd before she could even not say goodbye to him. “Dipstick . . .” she cussed to herself.

Prepared this time for all the logistics of a drawn-out investigation, Dipper intended to carry only the essentials to each class. He also intended to pass by his locker at every available occasion (making at least one occasion at the end of school) in order to lighten his load. He also had brought some provisions and some of his . . . _equipment_ now that this was no longer a spontaneous operation. Predictably, the “Subject” passed by his locker shortly after Dipper positioned himself nearby. “And so the game begins again. But this time, we’re playing it my way: joker’s wild. And I’m the joker . . .”

****

The plan was to drive west—perhaps as far west as west went.

“Y luego?” the woman who was no longer middle-aged asked the empty motel room.

She had a map of the United States. It didn’t quite unfold completely at the corners, which was nigh maddening for her. In the end, she had to iron it before it would lay flat and perfectly square. Then, however (with a cup of coffee brewed from a single one of her carefully guarded yellow beans), she was at her leisure to examine the West Coast.

“California? Oregon? Washington?”

She carefully refolded the map, rearranged her room as it had been when she arrived, cleaned it as best she could without a vacuum or a duster or an industrial gallon of lysol, and then proceeded to thoroughly examine the undercarriage of her car. When she decided it was satisfactorily bomb-free, she climbed in and started driving.

“Oeste . . .”

****

Before Mabel had reached her locker, she found a grinning Candy and Grenda waiting for her.

Grenda began, “Okay, so we have great news—”

“We have lots of the stuff already!” Candy interjected.

“And it looks so glamorous, you are not even gonna believe!”

Candy squealed, “We will make you looks so dark-beautiful! Like a duchess of vampires!”

“That news . . . doesn’t fill me with a swirling void of bitterness,” Mabel declared.

“I know, right?” Grenda gushed. “We don’t have everything, but I asked my cousin who said there’s this place in town that isn’t totally ‘podunk’ or ‘poseur’.”

“What does that mean?”

“We aren’t exactly sure,” Candy admitted. “But apparently it is bad to be either of them.”

“At any rate, my cousin said we should be able to get the rest of the stuff there,” Grenda said.

Mabel decided, “Then we’ll go. Sounds like it might be a semi-enjoyable way to while away the hours until the inevitable end of all things.”

BRRRIIIIIINNNGGG!

“Oh! We better hurry to class!”

“Yeah,” Mabel agreed unenthusiastically, turning to open her locker. “Just let me get my-AIEEE!” An avalanche of rose petals tumbled out of the locker, nearly burying her. To breathe, she had to spit some of them from her mouth. “Pleh! Pleh!” And then a card fell out.

Candy examined it while Grenda dug out their friend. “Roses are red, their petals like velvet,” she read aloud. “So are my lips, but you should confirm it. To my lady love now and forever, Gideon.”

“Wow . . .” Grenda mouthed incredulously. “That is . . . um . . .”

“Disturbing?” Mabel suggested angrily.

“I was looking for a nice way to see ‘flesh-crawlingly creepy’, but I don’t think there is one.”

“Do you think we can just leave a mess like this?” Candy asked worriedly. “We will be late.”

“Leave it with the card. Maybe he’ll get in trouble for the mess,” Mabel voiced in bitter hope. “Why . . . Why can’t people just leave me alone? Isn’t everything bad enough already without all this?”

****

In terms of Dipper’s investigation, school that day revealed nothing new about the “Subject” beyond his name and his class schedule. “Norman Babcock?” the Home Ec. teacher called, for both he and Dipper had Home Ec. before lunch.

“Present.”

“_Norman_?” Dipper repeated quietly. “_Norman_?” It was almost enough to make him suspicious.

As before, the “Subject” took way too many notes relative to the teacher’s blah-blah-blahing. Also as before, he seemed to constantly be listening to and glancing at something beside him in the apparently empty air.

“This ‘Detoby’ character?” Dipper thought to himself.

Also as before, unfortunately, Home Ec. offered Dipper an occasion to witness more instances of people covertly harassing the “Subject”. Watching silently made him feel complicit in it; it felt terrible, but he had to sit there and pretend not to notice. A lot like the “Subject” himself, Dipper supposed.

However, there was no long perambulation around the school this time during lunch break; under the bleachers was where the “Subject” went directly after procuring a school lunch—a chance which mercifully allowed Dipper to do the same.

Unmercifully, too, for by a cruel jest of the fates, he wound up only just behind Mabel in line, who deliberately ignored him. Candy and Grenda shrugged sympathetically.

And then Pacifica and her minions made their appearance. “Wow. Will you look at that? Mabel has the same hideous outfit as yesterday,” she commented loudly. “It must be hard to be poor. And ugly and stupid and unpopular and a liar.”

“Your family would know all about lies, wouldn’t it?” Dipper challenged her.

Pacifica turned condescendingly on Dipper now. “Y’know, hon, I’ve done a lot of thinking about those papers you showed me. Even if they are true about the past, they don’t change the present. See, the Northwest family is still one of the richest, most prestigious families in Oregon. I’m still beautiful, rich, popular, and I sing better than most pop stars. Yay for me.”

The minions high-fived Pacifica when she snapped her fingers.

“But your sister? She’s the _real_ liar, and it doesn’t even change anything about the present.”

Bewildered, Dipper demanded, “What are you even talking about?”

“Cha! She said your parents are dead just to try and make me look like a jerk—”

“Our parents _are_ dead,” Dipper interrupted her coldly. “You _are_ a jerk.”

Silence. Pacifica tried to rally her forces, “So you’re in on the lie—”

“Why do you think we’re attending school here instead of in Piedmont?” he countered. “We live with our Gruncle Stan now because he’s our only family left. That’s no lie. Now leave my sister alone.”

Pacifica wisely elected to retreat from that skirmish.

Once she had departed, Dipper gently asked, “You okay, Mabel Syrup?”

“I don’t . . . need _you_ . . . to fight my battles for me . . .” Mabel replied tightly. She wasn’t looking at any of them—not at her brother, not at her two friends. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying; her fists were clenched white.

An awkward silence ensued. Candy confided to the others, “Sometimes, at night . . . I imagine Pacifica when she is older. If there’s justice in this world, she will be unhappy and alone—”

“With early wrinkles and gray hair! And zits!” Grenda added enthusiastically.

“And no money due to a poor investment strategy,” Dipper chimed in.

“No,” Mabel asserted bleakly. “She’ll marry a handsome rich man, have handsome rich babies, and spend her life attending social events for handsome rich people. Because there’s no justice. Period. Get your lunch and go do your _important_ stuff,” she told Dipper sourly.

With a sigh, Dipper did. It made for a lonely lunch.

But so was the girls’ lunch, as well as that of the “Subject” . . .

****

When the last period of the day ended, Dipper snaked back to his locker like a ninja in shorts. His books were eagerly exchanged for his . . . _equipment_, each piece of which he kissed for good luck. “Who’s ready for a little investigating?” he whispered to them collectively. “For _science_! Or, at least, for _pseudo_-science!”

The “Subject” once again led Dipper to the house on Mist Tree Road without the slightest inkling that he was being tailed covertly. He disappeared into the house.

From behind his surveillance tree and newspaper screen, Dipper then readied his . . . _equipment_. First, there was the Eavesdropear (_As Viewed on the Tube_! “Be nosy with your ears!”): a birthday gift from Mabel that allowed one to hear a whispered conversation up to sixty feet away. It was discreet, too; one only had to look like the kind of doof that wore a bluetooth everywhere and occasionally stared with discomforting intensity at certain people. Second, there was the Bic Mic (_As Viewed on the Tube_! “The pen is craftier than the sword!”): a personal investment in information acquisition on Dipper’s part, this microphone that looked like a pen allowed him to secretly record any conversation to which he happened to take this microphone that looked like a pen (assuming he managed to adequately hide the blinking light that signaled it was on). When he plugged its chord into the Eavesdropear, it allowed him to also record what he heard from a distance. This he tucked into his vest pocket, right next to 3. Third and last, there was the EMF Detector, which came with a guarantee of satisfaction from Boo-Hoosiers (“The most trusted ghost-hunting specialists in Indiana” according to boohoosiersincorporated.com). Dipper kept that piece ready in his backpack for when the “Subject” reemerged.

“Joker’s wild . . . And I’m the joker . . .”

****

{Normy, dear!} Elaine greeted her grandson, half-hopeful and half-fearful. {How was it all today? Was it any better?}

“No, not really . . .” Norman replied honestly. “But I was more prepared for it, I guess . . .”

{Listen to that stoicism! Kid should’ve been a Greek,} Detoby praised him. {I tell you, Bugaboo has some nerves like he’s made out of marble. If it had been me, I’d have created the new philosophy of stow-it-ism for all those mooks and palookas. Not him though. _Sahng_-_frrrwad_ like a man’s man.}

Shrugging off his backpack, Norman went to the kitchen for a snack. “Anyone back yet?”

{Um, no . . . Just me,} Elaine answered with forced cheeriness. Turning to Detoby, she whispered {What went on today, exactly?}

{Same as yesterday: notes, paper barrages, jokes even I could outquip . . .} The Jokergeist purposefully omitted an incident of tripping. {Nothing he isn’t grown-up enough to shrug off.}

{But he’s not a grown-up,} Elaine countered passionately. {He’s still just a kid. And even if he was grown-up, no one should have to deal with all that. The world shouldn’t be that cruel to anyone.}

{Well, have no fear; that’ why I’m here. Making it a little less cruel for him.}

Elaine sighed. Before she could next articulate whatever she was feeling, however, her grandson returned with an apple and a glass of milk. “I promised Mister Whitehawk I’d come by again today. Y’know, clean up the river a little bit for him,” he explained. “Detoby said he’d tag along, and afterwards we might go to the bookstore again. Wanna come? You don’t have to, of course . . .”

Elaine bit her lip.

Norman reassured her, “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

{You’re sure that wouldn’t bother you? Because I must admit I can think of several things more entertaining than watching you pick up trash while Mister Whitehawk fishes. And, of course,} she added with a glare at Detoby, {_he_’ll be telling fish jokes the whole time.}

{Orca, you cod me. And I would do it all on porpoise . . . just to get your boat.}

{Kill me again.}

{Sharks, let’s not blowfish this out of prop-ocean.}

“Prop-oar-ocean. Heh.”

{Alright! Alright! Just go tell these horrible jokes somewhere else!} Elaine begged.

“Yeah, once I fin-fish this snack, we otter be going.”

She fled the room in exasperation. {Gra! I’m going to go watch my stories!}

{Seal you later, my sweet, sweet mermaid!}

****

When the “Subject” emerged from the house with a garbage bag and nail on a stick, Dipper was more than ready. He drew out the EMF Detector and, from behind his cover, pointed it at the “Subject”. Its single light flashed into life.

“Ha! I knew it! I _knew_ there was—wait a minute . . . What happened to the other lights?”

The EMF Detector was supposed to have five lights: a green one for slightly higher ambient EMF, then a yellow one, an orange one, a pink one, and a bright red one for increasingly elevated amounts—all of them abnormally high. But this device only had one . . .

It clicked, and Dipper’s palm met his face. “Stupid! This isn’t my EMF Detector. This is Soos’s . . . _thingy_. His nail-space-on-wall-good-spot-finder _thingy_ . . . What’s it called? And how did it even get mixed up with my EMF Detector?”

Irritated with himself, Dipper pointed it at the retreating form of the “Subject” a second time. Again, it flashed when he pointed it at the “Subject”, but went out when he pointed it off to the side. Dipper waved the thingy all around, but it only flashed when pointing directly at the “Subject”.

“Hmm . . . Does this mean I’m like supposed to nail him against a wall, or something? Maybe . . . hammer him?” Dipper wondered aloud. “Nah, it’s just a stupid nail-spot-finder thingy—what’s it know?”

Turning off the flashing device, Dipper replaced it in his backpack and snuck after the “Subject”. They were headed into the woods, in the direction of the lake . . .

****

Grenda and Candy had each brought a crate and a big grin. Mabel, in spite of herself, was actually almost smiling. Perhaps this was because, of necessity, she had had to change her clothes; and since all her other (normal) clothes were brightly colored, she was once again wearing (if temporarily) her habitual bright colors. Science has proven bright colors cheer people up. Also that cats heal people, shopping is literally an addiction for some, and spiders are slowly taking over the planet. Intentionally.

Now, like surgeons in an operating room, they stood in aprons and goggles.

“Is the table fully prepped?” Mabel asked.

“All set!” Grenda answered.

“Is the equipment laid out?”

“Also all set!”

“And the patient?”

“Ready to begin!”

Candy looked down and gently stroked it. “Don’t worry. We’re professionals. We’re going to make you . . . _glamorous_ . . .”

Mabel nodded. “Let’s get started, then. Scissors.”

“Scissors.” Grenda handed them over.

****

Picking his way over rocks and roots, Norman asked Detoby, “You ever met Mister Whitehawk?”

{Sure, I’ve met him. Only deathed in this burg for about _eight decades_,} the Jokergeist replied. {But how did _you_ meet him?}

“Went walking along the river a couple days after moving here.”

{You go clean up the river often?}

“About once a week. It’s something productive to do,” Norman said with a shrug. “Plus, I like watching him work.”

{Work? What does he do?}

“You don’t know?” The boy Medium grinned knowingly. “You’ll love it. It’s so cool.”

{What? Like that door on Main Street? Of course, it’s nice to feel anything again, but—}

“No, I mean it’s awesome.”

{Really? Whitehawk never struck me as the religious type. Nor did you, Bugaboo, come to that; one of the many things I like about you.}

Norman sighed. “I mean that his work is . . . impressive to see. It’s great.”

{Oh, you mean it’s _darb_!} Detoby realized.

“I . . . guess?”

{It’s the _bee’s_ _knees_, right?}

“Sure?”

{Then why didn’t you just say so like a normal person? What’s the Chief do?}

“I don’t wanna spoil the surprise. It really is ‘darb’. If I’m understanding that word right . . .”

{Now you’re talking my lingo!}

Upon reaching the shore of the lake, Norman and Detoby followed its bank to the mouth of Inertia River, which flowed serenely away from Gravity Falls and its lake. The water was clear and gentle, neither too deep nor too shallow, and had frequent boulders forming “cross rocks” to the other side. Trees arched over it, forming a canopy that diffused most of the sunlight into a rich, emerald glow. Still, shafts of pure sunlight pierced through here and there—columns of gold between the crystal waters and the emerald canopy. As far as rivers went, it was perfect; it had an irresistible appeal to the little boy in Norman (and in Detoby, and in all males).

“He should be right around here . . .”

{Over here, Ecelkcelk!} a voice called to him—a voice that sounded like the river itself.

And there Robert Whitehawk was, a spectral man “seated” on a boulder and nearly invisible in a shaft of sunlight. In life, friends had sometimes called him “Ro_bear_t” because of his burly frame, so it was astounding that he had now been so well hidden in plain sight. His features, though somewhat eroded by age and mollified by rich foods, were still high and handsome. His long hair was pulled back into a traditional Native American braid that, if shot with silver strands, was always immaculate in death; never a hair out of place—not since his funeral. A fishing hat with lures hooked in its brim was worn over the braid, though, and Robert Whitehawk was equipped with waders, a flannel shirt with rolled sleeves, a vest filled with tackle and bobbers, and a translucent pole. The man had been a fisherman; the ghost was rightly the Fisherghost.

Norman waved amiably. “Hi, Mister Whitehawk!”

{How, Chief?} the Jokergeist saluted him.

Whitehawk glanced coldly at Detoby. {Mister Determined,} he eventually replied.

{Please, my friends call me ‘Detoby’.}

{I’ll bet they do.}

Norman looked from one to the other—a study in contrasts. “Um . . . Is something wrong?”

{No,} Detoby said regretfully. {I just fudge the punchlines of my jokes—}

{Or your jokes aren’t funny, Mister Determined.}

{Alright, then the Chief here just doesn’t have much sense of humor.}

{I already told you once not to call me that,} the Fisherghost growled. {I won’t tell you again.}

“His jokes aren’t _that_ bad,” Norman defended his friend. “Not _all_ _of_ _them_, anyway . . .”

Whitehawk gave Norman a piercing look. {You think his jokes are funny?}

“Well, yeah, the ones about fish and food are,” Norman answered uncertainly. “They’re okay. Maybe a little cornball . . . Well, _very_ cornball . . . Well, _extremely_ cornball, but yeah. I guess . . .”

{A-maize-ingly cornball!} Detoby interjected. And he honked his horn.

The piercing look softened. {That’s all, though? He hasn’t made any of his . . . other jokes?}

“What other jokes?”

{Jokes about my people, for instance?}

The boy Medium looked at Detoby in disbelief.

{When I told him they were offensive, he told me not to ‘get red’.}

“Oh, Detoby . . .” Norman said with a disappointed shake of his head.

{What? The delivery on that one was perfect! I distinctly remember—I usually don’t get the spontaneous ones like that so flawlessly!}

{This isn’t about _technique_. It’s that you treat my people like a joke,} the Fisherghost insisted. {How would you feel if I made jokes about your people?}

{I’m _Welsh_,} the Jokergeist retorted good-naturedly. {We _are_ a joke. We’re the proof that God has a sense of humor—us and platypuses . . . or platypi? Platy . . . pups? pods? persons of platy?}

Norman’s palm met his face and they both had a long, exasperated conversation about Detoby. “Why would you even tell those kinds of jokes? Why would you even tell them to a _Native_ _American_?”

{Well, who best appreciates Baptist jokes? Baptists! Who best appreciates Scotch jokes? Scots! So I figured . . . I hoped Ch—Mister Whitehawk would be amused . . . and maybe . . . Well . . .}

With a sigh, Norman supplied the answer, “You were just trying to make a good impression? Trying to be funny?”

{Exactly! Not everyone is . . . always so happy to see me . . .} Detoby explained in an undertone.

{Possibly because of the offensive jokes, Mister Determined. Not bad jokes—_offensive_ ones.}

The Jokergeist looked away. {If it’s worth anything, I didn’t intend to offend you.}

“Alright. So you get why Mister Whitehawk was unhappy?” Norman asked Detoby. “He wants who and what he is to be treated with respect. Like we all do. You get that, right?”

{Yes, I do.}

“And?” Norman prompted him.

{And I apologize, Mister Whitehawk.}

Turning to the Fisherghost, Norman asked, “You get that Detoby wasn’t trying to be a jerk?”

{I suppose I do.}

“You get that Detoby’s actually very nice and friendly, he’s just also sometimes a little clumsy and more than a little dense?”

{Hey!}

“Quiet, you. As I was saying, nice and friendly but clumsy and dense. Like we all are more often than we’d like to be. You get that, and that he’s apologizing for it?”

{I suppose . . . And I accept your apology. Detoby,} Whitehawk added magnanimously.

“So we’re good? Are we all going to give each other the benefit of the doubt and maybe discuss any and all future conflicts openly and respectfully like adults instead of getting all hurt and offended like babies?” Norman passive-aggressively lectured them. “Because I came here to pick up trash. I swear, if I have to do anymore counseling, I might start kicking it—yours, everyone’s, I don’t freakin’ care at all! I am simultaneously way too young and way too old for this crap . . .”

Both ghosts smirked. {Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the NorMedium,} Detoby announced.

{Done ranting, grandpa? Need a lie down, maybe?}

Norman ignored them. “Any campers this week?” he inquired, setting off along the riverbank.

{No, just the usual garbage that somehow collects around here. Thanks for coming to clean it, Ecelkcelk,} the Fisherghost voiced his gratitude. {It makes it . . . better. Knowing someone cares about my river . . .}

{May I ask what ‘Ecelkcelk’ means?} Detoby inquired courteously.

{It’s a word of the language that was spoken round these parts—my ancestor’s old language. Means ‘Porcupine’.}

The Jokergeist snorted, and Norman rounded on him. “Not one word out of you, fish-face.”

{But . . . It’s so perfect! Don’t Esulksulk just because you are an Ecelkcelk.}

“My hair just grows this way, alright?”

{You could try wearing a hat. Or styling it,} Whitehawk suggested smilingly.

“Hats . . . spring back off. Like ‘boing’ kinda thing. Sound and everything.”

Whitehawk snorted. Detoby burst out, {You’re joking! You’ve got to be! I must see this!}

With a sigh, Norman answered, “No, I’m not joking. I tried slicking it back with hair gel once, but after half-an-hour, it had mostly crept back up . . . I looked like a freakin’ _anime_ character . . .”

Both ghosts asked, {What’s ‘anime’?}

“It’s Japanese and . . . Ho boy, how do I explain anime? It usually involves sword-swinging, magic-using, super-genius teenagers (with inexplicably bizarre hair—oh, and they’re usually all Japanese, but more than half of them look American) combatting ancient evils like tentacle-monsters while facing overly dramatic teenage angst (because they’re usually in high school while all this is going on, too).”

Whitehawk’s jaw hung slack. {What in the Hell . . ?}

“Did I forget to mention these are cartoons? Because they are. Some are really great, actually.”

{What in the . . . Just what in the Hell?}

****

Hidden from view by trees and boulders, but still able to hear every word thanks to the Eavesdropear, Dipper muttered, “Anime? First we’re talking about Native Americans and sensitivity, now we’re talking about his hair and anime? Either he’s having one weird-butt conversation with some weird-butt ghosts, or the voices in his head are nuttier than a bag of trail mix . . . If so, at least they want to clean up the river . . . Most people’s voices usually want to wear tinfoil hats to keep the angel-aliens at bay . . .”

The behatted boy crept onwards, always careful not to move too close.

“And . . . now he/they are talking about how crazy the Japanese are . . . At least they found some common ground, I guess . . .”

****

“Reload.”

“Are you sure? We’ve already—”

“Dang it, I said reload!” Mabel ordered.

“But she’s already bezazzled up as far she’ll go!” Grenda wailed. “She can’t take anymore!”

“I will not have mutiny aboard this friendship! Reload, I say!”

“I’ve given you all the black-dahlia-ish beads I’ve got, Mabel! I don’t have the flowers!”

“No! Not now! Not when we’re so close . . .”

Candy laid an arm on Mabel’s shoulder. “Do not be sad over beads, Mabel. It is not logical.”

“Can’t we jerryrig some more?”

“That jerryrigging wouldn’t hold . . . on the fabric, or against stylistic scrutiny,” Grenda stated. “Give me thirty minutes and I can go buy some more, though.”

“But my muse will’ve abandoned us in thirty minutes! It has to be now!”

“Can’t you just remember the pattern you’re doing now?” Candy inquired.

“No! Dang it, Candy, I’m an ad hoc-er! Not a revisionist!”

“I can’t change the laws of economics. I’ve got to have thirty minutes . . . to fully complete the financial transaction.”

“Why thirty minutes?” Candy asked.

“For comparing prices and check-out chitchat.”

“Fascinating . . .”

“Candy: analysis? Comments?” Mabel asked desperately.

“It would seem logical to look for similar beads in your arts and crafts closet.”

Mabel bounded across the room. “Of course! Grenda, I need some light. Grab me that lantern.” Throwing open the closet door, she shouted, “Now beam through this door!” A moment of scrambling among the boxes revealed a forgotten case of discarded Bezazzle Beads—one that the girls had previously considered too dark for their projects; they were perfect now, and she tossed them to Grenda. “Now _reload_. Bead me up.”

“Aye aye, Mabel!”

Candy nodded to herself in satisfaction. “Truly, nowhere am I so desperately needed as among this group of illogical BGFFs.”

Grenda looked up with narrowed eyes. “We’re illogical?”

“Yes. Very. Fortunately, I am capable of functioning at a higher level of cognizance that—”

“One Direction.”

“You appear to be listing—”

“Big Time Rush.”

“—cute boy bands that I—”

“The Jonas Brothers.”

“—like, which is fascinateeeeEEEEEEEE!” And Candy began involuntarily fangirling out of control.

****

{There’s a beer can under this bush,} Detoby stated, passing through the plant to check for litter.

{And this one,} Whitehawk added. {Another beer can.}

Norman lifted the leaves and stabbed both to retrieve them. “Is it like . . . part of being drunk that you stop caring about all the crap you leave behind you?” he asked irritably of the world. “Yugh . . . Why do people even drink this? It smells like urine and shame . . .”

{Boozehounds don’t exactly drink for the bouquet or palate,} Detoby pointed out. {As to why anyone’d choose beer, I wouldn’t know, myself. Gin was my choice of poison if there was no schnapps.}

Whitehawk snorted. {How very roaring twenties of you.}

{Indeed, good sir. One must have some class when one raises a glass. Because one won’t have it afterwards, that’s for sure. What was your preferred means of liver murder?}

{Whiskey and Coca-Cola.}

{Ah. A classic. Simple and elegant.}

Robert Whitehawk shrugged. {It was cheap, and it would get you drunk.}

“Do those taste any better than this smells?”

{Mmm . . . Not really,} the Jokergeist answered truthfully. {But it gets to the point that you can’t live without them . . . There’s a reason you can’t spell ‘inebriated’ without ‘brain dent’.}

Both the Medium and the Fisherghost pondered that. {Ha!} the latter laughed. {He’s right. See, Detoby, jokes like those last couple have actually been funny.}

{Really? You think so?} the Jokergeist asked hopefully, his eyes alight. {I’m finally improving?}

{Sure, I guess. Just tell them like that. Don’t try so hard.}

{After all these decades . . . And it’s all thanks to you, Bugaboo! I could kiss you!}

“Um, that’s okay. Please don’t. I mean, I really haven’t done anything . . .”

Detoby started jigging in the air out of pure exaltation. {I’m finally getting funny! Hotsy-Totsy! Twenty-three skidoo!}

{Er . . . There’s another one—beer can—under that bush,} Whitehawk informed Norman.

Norman sighed. “I got it . . . Stupid beer cans . . .”

Detoby stopped jigging. {Who is even drinking that much?}

“Probably stupid teenagers . . .}

{Yeah, actually. Some stupid teens who apparently have nothing better to do that get drunk by my river.}

“Where do they even get them? It’s illegal.”

{What? Still? No pun intended,} the Jokergeist added. {Didn’t prohibition get repealed?}

“Not for anyone under twenty-one.”

{Well, do a favor for you, Bugaboo. Don’t start drinking even then. And that’s coming from me, someone who probably would have died of drink if I hadn’t died of something else first.}

“What did kill you, if I may ask?” Norman ventured.

{It’s something of a long story . . .} Detoby sighed.

“It’s something of a long river we’re cleaning up,” Norman pointed out.

{Well, I was muckraker back in the big city of Portland—}

“Muckraker?”

{A sleazy journalist,} Detoby explained matter-of-factly. {Wrote rags about the dregs of society. Dredged through the lowest of the low looking for scoops—scooped up their muck and served it to the city’s socially better citizens like ice cream in a newspaper cone. Rancid ice cream, but they gobbled it up just the same. It was a living, just not a good life . . .}

Norman stopped momentarily in his search for trash. He would swear he could hear jazz music.

{But you can’t work in the muck without it getting under your skin. Gets in your head, too, until you think the whole world is muck. Yours seems to be by that point—filled with the misery of others and the people who feed off of that misery. And you in between them, like a waiter saying ‘muck appetite’. Makes you wonder why you bother making a living when you got no life,} Detoby recalled in gray tones. {And you’d take a nosedive off a bridge to just leave the muck behind, except you know the river below is a river of muck. Doesn’t even matter if your swansong swandive is off a land bridge, because people pass below every day. Just like a real river, but with more muck.}

Whitehawk peered at the Jokergeist. {You’re surprisingly dark for the man with all the jokes.}

“You didn’t . . . commit suicide, did you?” Norman asked in barely controlled horror.

The Jokergeist snorted. {Well, in a manner of speaking . . .}

“Oh, Detoby . . .”

{Now don’t go lindyhopping to conclusions. I didn’t jump _off_ of anything; I jumped _onto_ a stage. See, there was this speakeasy called ‘The Laugheasy’ where they did amateur vaudeville. I’d go there and, for a few hours, forget about all the muck. Not because of the hooch, but because it was so funny. Laughter . . . laughter changes you . . .} the Jokergeist mused. His tone was not bantering, as it usually was, but sober and transported; he almost sounded reverent—like a man offering praise to his god. {Laughter flushes all the bad thoughts out of you, Bugaboo. I don’t really remember the comedians or their jokes, but I remember how they just _glowed_ on that stage. How I felt while listening to them and watching them make the whole room crack up . . .} He practically genuflected with his rubber chicken.

“I don’t understand how that made you die, though.”

A nostalgic smile upon his wide, homely face, Detoby recounted, {I made up my mind one day that I wanted to be on that stage. I wanted to make the whole room crack up. Wanted to flush out everyone else’s bad thoughts. I was so tired of the muck . . . So I got my first horn and rubber chicken and started rehearsing a routine. Took them with me everywhere, too. For months. My wife once said she couldn’t picture me without them anymore . . .”

{For months?} the Fisherghost asked.

{Took a while to work up the nerve to actually stand up there,} Detoby explained deprecatingly. {I was so terrified I _wouldn’t_ make a fool of myself—that no one’d laugh but *shudder* _yawn_ at me.}

{You did, though. Right?}

{Absaposalutely. And when I go up there . . . When I was standing in the middle of that light . . .}

“What? What happened?”

{It was _perfect_. That’s the only word to describe it: _perfect_. The jokes just flowed, and everyone was in hysterics. I was on fire, and it left me feeling so alive and new and . . . and clean of the muck . . . I’ve never been able to recapture that moment, and I can’t leave ‘til I do again. I have to have it again,} the Jokergeist stated resolutely. {I have to hear that room full of people laughing because of me . . . Once more, at least . . .}

“But then . . .” Norman sighed. “How did _that_ kill you? You’re not making sense, Detoby.”

{Oh, right. Well, unfortunately for me, most of my jokes were . . . um, at the expense of the local mob boss’s second in command. I guess I really should have known better than to crack wise about a jack everyone called ‘Shortfuse McStabbity’ . . . Especially when he wasn’t even a Mick. So . . . yeah. Suicide in a manner of speaking. Took him a while to find me here in Gravity Falls, though.}

“You fled here?”

{Seemed like a good place to hide. Brought my wife and little boy. Started my own rag up here—one that didn’t muckrake, I’m proud to say,} Detoby added.

{While hiding from the mob you started a _newspaper_?} Whitehawk asked in disbelief.

{Under a _gnome-duh-ploom_. That’s frog-speak for ‘penname’. Called myself ‘Gary Gossiper’.}

Norman gulped. “And then that mob guy stabbed you?”

{After about a year. And just when I’d finally talked the local barkeep into starting up a weekly amateur vaudeville night, too . . .} The Jokergeist sighed. {I was going to be the opener that night . . . But, hey, that’s life. Or rather, that’s death. _Say-la-more_.}

{Makes my dying seem boring be comparison,} the Fisherghost murmured.

{How did you bite it?}

{Well, I guess you’d say by biting it. Got a fishbone lodged in my throat. Choked to death.}

Making a face, Norman said, “Not the most fun way to go . . .”

{There are no fun ways to go, Ecelkcelk. But—you’ll appreciate the irony, Detoby—it was a fish I’d just barely caught.}

{Oh, did you like casting a hook? I couldn’t tell from the waders or the pole.}

{A man is what a man does. I am a fisherman.}

{Were,} Detoby corrected him.

“No, he _is_ one,” Norman asserted with that same knowing grin. “Still. That’s his work.”

{In life, I fished. I was born by this very river, grew up along it, and lived by it. To earn daily bread I guided fishing expeditions. Was pretty good at it, too. Booked clean through the year on lakes and rivers from here to the Mississippi. Did ice fishing in the winter, too. Never a sick day, never a vacation—I lived on vacation, you might say,} the Fisherghost said with a modest pride. {Makes sense my death would be just like my life.}

{Now I’m the one who’s lost,} Detoby said. {How can you fish when you’re dead?}

Whitehawk cast that spectral line of his into the river, and then began leisurely reeling it back in. {Same way I did when I was alive.}

Watching the progression of the ghostly lure, Norman explained, “You’ve seen ghost animals? You know it’s not just people who linger on, right? Well, there is _a_ _lot_ of ghost fish in Inertia River, and Mister Whitehawk fishes for them.”

{Why?}

{Because I enjoy it, for one reason. And to do what I can to take care of my river, for a second. Shhh now . . . You’ll scare them . . .}

The spectral fishing pole arched suddenly, to Detoby’s surprise, but the Fisherghost reeled it in with the ease of an expert. A second later, a transparent rainbow trout was dangling before them.

The Jokergeist scratched under his hat. {How does this take care of the river?}

“Just watch, Detoby.”

{Shh now . . .} Whitehawk murmured to the thrashing trout, taking it in hand. {It’s alright . . .} Slipping it off the hook, he then held it gently in both hands. {Calm down . . . Just breathe . . .}

Gradually, the phantasmal fish stopped mouthing so desperately at the air. Once it had realized that it was breathing fine (or not breathing at all, rather), it stopped flailing about.

“Now watch,” Norman whispered excitedly to Detoby. “This is gonna be great!”

With a beatific smile, Whitehawk released the fish. {Be at peace, river brother . . .}

For a moment, it swam through the air like it was water, weaving around a delighted Detoby, Norman, and Whitehawk. At one point, it even darted through Norman’s chest, and he laughed with all the abandon a boy his age is supposed to laugh. It rose ever higher, however, now that it knew it could. Soon it was over their heads, skimming the underside of the canopy.

Perhaps that was when everything clicked for it . . .

****

“What the—” Dipper gasped in awe, for a foot-long patch of air above the river was shimmering. It was like clear sunlight shining through a ripple of water, the luminousness of which was rapturous. One blinding and beautiful second later, it was gone. Dipper had to lean against a tree.

The voice of the “Subject” sounded electronically in his ear shortly after. “Yeah. That’s how it looks when a ghost passes on. Hadn’t you ever seen it before? Yeah . . . Awesome . . . Mister Whitehawk does this because there are so many of them—maybe they die quickly because of eagles or bears or whatever. I dunno . . . Well, anyway, fish are kinda really stupid, so they just linger on until something shows them they don’t have to stay in the river . . . Like going off a waterfall, yes . . . Once that happens, though—once they see it’s the same above water as below it—they let themselves move on . . . I love watching it. Spending an afternoon spearing beer cans and empty chip bags is all worth it just to see Mister Whitehawk catch and release a few of those . . .”

“What the heck . . .” Dipper mouthed incredulously. “Ghost fish . . . and ghost fishermen . . . Talking about hair and lives before death and how crazy the Japanese are . . . You just can’t make up stuff like this. And why would he? And I . . . I saw . . . _that_!”

“Yeah, I see the stupid beer can . . .” Dipper heard the “Subject” say to his invisible companions. “Freakin’ teenagers . . . Hate them all . . .”

****

With a click, the final Bezazzled Bead was positioned. Mabel stepped back to survey her work.

“It’s magnificent . . .” Candy whispered zealously beside her.

“I’ve never seen anything so darkly beautiful, yet so sparkly . . .” Grenda intoned.

“So, so sparkly . . .”

“Yeah,” Mabel agreed. “But I still feel like it needs . . . something . . .”

“Um, hello? Accessories!”

“And makeup!”

“Of course! Grenda, Candy, you’re both so wise,” Mabel stated admiringly. “What do we have?”

“I’ve got black eyeshadow and eyeliner, and mascara!” Grenda announced.

“I have black nail polish!” Candy added. “Lots of it!”

Considering the pile of products, Grenda said, “So we still need some face-whitener stuff and some black lipstick. Accessories, too, of course. That place my cousin told me about should have them.”

“So this means we go shopping?” Candy asked excitedly. “It’s only about five; we have time!”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Mabel decided—more enthusiastic for the project than she had realized.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Candy fangirled out of control.

“And she’s the logical one,” Grenda said.

“We just need some money from Gruncle Stan first,” Mabel declared with determination. “Ladies, set your faces to ‘precocious little girl’. This will require a full-on cute offensive.”

In the living room below them, Stan shuddered suddenly. “Whoa . . . What was that? Felt like . . . like some sorta premonition of inescapable doom . . .”

“Oh, Gruncle StaAaAan? Gruncle StaAaAaAan?” Mabel’s voice came pirouetting into the room.

“Hey, Mabel Syrup! You sound like you’re feeling—” And Stan froze. There she was, in the door, with the other two girls standing beside her. “Oh no . . .” Their eyes were huge and bright, with pupils dilated to a maximum puppy-like diameter. Heads titled just so, they were somehow always looking up at him. Even when they were standing above him. “No . . . Please, no . . .”

Mabel cavorted—actually cavorted!—over to the couch, and somehow managed to just barely look over the armrest at him. “Gruncle Stan, could we please borrow a little-wittle money-woney?”

Candy and Grenda frolicked after her. “Pretty, pretty please with cherries and sprinkles on top?”

“T-tapped out . . .” Stan gasped, resisting their cuteness. “I’m tapped—”

“We don’t need very much,” Mabel circumvented his defensive ploy.

Grenda and Candy shook their heads in unison. “Pretty, pretty, pretty please please please?”

“But I don’t . . . Funds . . . _low_ . . . Money . . . _tight_ . . .” His defenses were crumbling.

“You’re such a good Gruncle Stan, so we wouldn’t ask if we didn’t really need some, but . . .” Mabel readied the big guns. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and augmented her blush by twenty percent for a maximum in girlishness. “We need to buy some . . . _feminine things_.”

Horror—stark white unadulterated stampeding horror—flashed in Stan’s eyes.

“Oh! You could come with us!” Mabel suggested brightly, as if it would be fun.

“NO!” It wasn’t clear exactly from where Stan pulled so much cash, as he was at that time wearing the minimalist combination of old boxers and older undershirt he favored when not working; neither of these had pockets, yet somehow he produced handfuls of cash to fling defensively at Mabel. It’s best not to wonder about some things. “PLEASE NO! BUY WHATEVER! HAVE ICE CREAM! MY TREAT! JUST GO!”

The girls swiftly amassed the money (fifty-three US dollars plus one Canadian dollar) and retreated from their ambush with warcries of “Thanks, Mister Pines!” and “Love you, Gruncle Stan!”

Behind them, Stan was quivering mess on the couch. “It begins . . .” he whispered forebodingly to the empty room. “So soon already . . . The feminine things already cast their shadow on this once happy, simple home—this _masculine_ home . . . But now . . . I am not ready for these kinds of things . . . Soon the changes . . . and then the _talks_ about the changes . . . And then she’ll need the—no!—but also —no! Gah! I can’t even name the awful things . . . The horror! The expensive, feminine horror!”

Mabel was almost cheerful again as she and her friends hurried into town. “What accessories should we get? Do I need a purse? Or a parasol? Lots of those goths we saw online had parasols.”

“I’m thinking jewelry,” Grenda replied. “Something shiny and silvery.”

“Ooo . . . Like that spider necklace!” Candy interjected. “I never thought spiders could be pretty until I saw that necklace!”

“Or that belt of skulls!”

“The broaches! The medallions! With the massive gems!”

Grenda boomed jovially, “Heck, with the fortune we’ve got, we can prob’ly afford them all!”

“Do you think they will have vampire teeth?” Candy wondered. “Vampire teeth would go fantastically with the outfit!”

Mabel nodded appraisingly. “I do like vampires . . .”

“If you do the vampire look, though, we can’t buy any cross-shaped things,” Grenda asserted. “That would just look weird.”

“Well, yeah. Don’t wanna look like a freak,” Mabel agreed. “I just want an outer manifestation of my inner epiphany about the inherent, unfeeling darkness of the universe. Something tasteful and understated that ties itself together, y’know?”

Entering downtown Gravity Falls (or perhaps midtown, since they came at it obliquely), the girls found themselves skirting the monument to conspiracy-puppet and fake-founder Nathaniel Northwest, as well as the town hall and old church. “The place should be at the other end of Main Street,” Grenda informed her friends.

“Then we’ll have sufficient time to shop,” Mabel said with satisfaction. “Good work, my BG—”

A faint whisper, like a voice on the cusp of hearing, but inside her ear instead of outside it.

Mabel stopped. She was standing on Main Street, directly across from that door. Reality did not appear to be bending around it, but Mabel did hear a sound that somehow she knew emanated from it.

The whisper seemed to be getting louder. It was building, as if it knew someone was listening. Would it say the same thing? Would she understand what it meant—what it was trying to say to her each and every time she saw it in her dreams and in waking—if she listened a little longer? Maybe if she opened it, she’d be able to hear—

Candy tugged on her shoulder. “Mabel? Mabel, are you alright?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry . . . Just zoned out a little . . .”

“Well, c’mon!” Grenda boomed, tugging her friend after her. “We don’t have all day!”

“Um . . . Can I ask you guys if that door seemed . . . a little weird?”

“What door? You mean outside Fantastic Scholastic? Frankly, automatic doors all seem way, way weird to me—”

“Not this again!” Candy groaned.

“I’m just saying, it’s like they’re always _watching_ us . . .”

“They have _sensors_! Of course they’re watching us! So they can open for us and be convenient!”

“And what happens when they decide they’re done opening for us, huh?”

“They can’t, because they aren’t programmed with the capacity! They can’t _decide_. Period and/or exclamation point. You might as well ask what happens when snails decide to grow hands.”

Mabel looked back over her shoulder at the door. Then, with a little shiver she did not fully understand, she ignored it and walked on.

It felt like it was angry about that.

“That might just be what they want us to think,” Grenda suggested ominously.

“They can’t think,” Candy asserted. “They don’t have the equipment to think.”

“Whatever. The robot uprising is coming, Candy. And the automatic doors will start it.”

“I, for one, welcome our ingressional overlords.”

“This the place?” Mabel interrupted their exchange. “Pins, Nails, and Needles Body Mod?”

One section of the enterprise was screened off for a tattoo parlor, and the other sold various makeups and piercings. The “B” from the Health Inspector was displayed prominently in the window, just below the logo of a resplendently accessorized woman being wrapped up by a giant snake.

“Seems reputable enough . . .” And they all entered.

In the section for makeup, they soon located a face cream called “Arctic Fox” that was “guaranteed to give an ethereal pallor for that beauty from beyond a bygone age”.

Grenda took a closer look at the back. “What do you suppose it means by ‘Nine out of Ten Grand Goths prefer Arctic Fox’? What’s a ‘Grand Goth’?”

Candy shrugged.

“It means it must be good, right?” Mabel reasoned. “We’ll try it.”

“Ooo . . . Look at this!” Candy enthused, pointing to an obsidian black hair dye. “If you get this, we could look like twins!”

A knot formed in Mabel’s throat. She ran a hand through her waves of milk chocolate brown. “Um . . . Thanks, but I’ll pass . . .”

“Are you sure? Goths really like to dye their—”

Grenda elbowed the Korean girl and hissed, “Candy!”

“What? Oh . . .” She saw that Mabel was, all of a sudden, on the verge of tears again.

“It’s just . . . I p-promised I’d never d-do anything to this hair—this ‘g-gorgeous’ hair . . .”

“It’s alright!” Candy comforted her hurriedly. “We’ll leave it alone. Besides, we wouldn’t really look like twins anyway.”

“I’m s-sorry, guys . . .”

“No reason to apologize!” Grenda insisted. “Look, they have a whole section for goth jewelry.”

But the selection was a bit intense for them. In fact, most of it was rather frightening.

“What about this one? It has a smiling skull,” Grenda suggested hopefully.

“Yeah, but why is there a woman clenched in its teeth? And why isn’t she wearing any clothes?” Mabel wondered.

“I don’t think I would climb naked into a giant skull’s mouth for any reason,” Candy stated for the record. “Especially not any of these skulls; none of them look very trustworthy. Sneaky skulls . . .”

Grenda pointed to another piece. “What about this? No skulls.”

“It sure is . . . pointy . . .” Mabel checked the edges and found them to be surprisingly sharp. “Too pointy. I’d prick myself wearing one like that . . .”

Unfortunately, nearly everything fell into either the category of “sneaky skulls” or “too pointy”. The few pieces that didn’t were prohibitively expensive _and_ prohibitively tacky. Not or. And.

And then Candy had an idea. “What if we just made our own? We could buy some friendly skulls and spiders from the Summerween store, paint them silver and put glitter and bezazzle beads on them, then make them into all sorts of accessories on our own.”

“Brilliant!” Mabel exclaimed.

“What time is it? Six?” Grenda asked. “We only have ‘til seven! Hurry, girls! Run like the wind!”

They were almost out the door when the owner yelled, “HEY! You have to pay for that makeup!”

“Hurry, girls! Pay like the wind!”

****

Evening was reaching across the sky when the “Subject” finally finished his circuit of the river. His garbage bag was so full, he had to sling it across his narrow shoulders to keep it from dragging. “Have a good week, Mister Whitehawk!” he called as he (and, presumably, Detoby) headed home.

Dipper continued to follow clandestinely. Half his mind was buzzing with all the possibilities of the “Subject” really being able to speak with ghosts, while the other half was trying to not let that half leap to any conclusions. Not yet. “This investigation needs . . . _conclusive_ evidence . . .” he told himself. “Especially since I _want_ it to be true . . . I have to be objective, and all I’ve got for proof is him talking to empty air convincingly and a weird light that . . . _could_ have been a reflection off the river . . .”

They exited the woods, and the “Subject” surreptitiously slipped the garbage bag into someone’s can before continuing on. “What?” he said defensively. “They’ll never even know . . . Besides, I’m saving the planet. They can’t legitimately complain about helping with that . . .”

A trundling noise from up the street. Dipper heard it first with his Eavesdropear, and he ducked behind a hedge for protection. “Take cover, you idiot!” he hissed. “Don’t you know what’s coming?!”

But the “Subject” noticed the trundling of doom only too late. By then, the scooter gang had encircled him: five boys between nine and ten years of age, each with a permanent temporary tattoo (they reapplied it whenever it faded) on their biceps that read “RAZOR BLADES”, each with the cold eyes of future mid-level professionals who wear black leather and ride motorcycles on the weekend in order to pretend that they’re tougher than the kind of mid-level professional men who wear black leather and ride motorcycles on the weekend. Their helmets had flaming skull stickers on them.

“You’re on our turf!” the leader—burly and bucktoothed—informed the “Subject” menacingly.

“Um . . . Sorry?”

“RAZOR BLADE turf, yo!”

“Okay? Well, I’m just going home—”

“Means you gotta pay a toll. Five pieces of candy!” the leader exiged. “Or we got . . . a _problem_.”

“I just came back from cleaning up the river. I don’t have any candy. Besides, why would I give you anything? I’m like a foot taller than all of you.”

From behind his cover, Dipper smacked his forehead. “No, you fool!”

In a flash, the other four had pounced. Two to an arm! And the “Subject” was restrained and forced into a kneeling position.

“Not so tall now, huh?” the leader gloated.

“Still tall . . . Just on the ground . . .” the “Subject” said through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Demon-Smasher,” one of the boys spoke up. “Isn’t this that freak who’s like always talking to himself?”

“Oh yeah . . . Why you always talking to yourself, freak? It because you got no friends like me?”

Even from his hidden vantage point, Dipper could see the “Subject” wince at that.

“These kids aren’t your friends,” he answered tersely. “They’re your gang. They stick around because you’re bigger and meaner than they are. Better to be behind you than in front of you.”

The leader shrugged indifferently. “Meh. Same difference.”

“And we get a cut of the candy!” another one of the boys spoke up.

“He also has an X-Box!” another chimed in.

The “Subject” tried struggling, but the four bent his arms back until he stopped.

Bending closer, the leader said, “My brother says you think you can talk . . . to _ghosts_.”

The “Subject” went perfectly still.

“They your friends? Not doing you much good now, are they?”

One of the boys crowed, “Maybe they’re getting the candy for him!”

“Maybe they’re hiding with Hiya Kitten!” another laughed.

“He’s that guy? Wow. Not even my little sister likes Hiya Kitten anymore.”

The leader straightened up. “My brother thinks you’re just nuts and weird and want attention. Me, too. ‘Cause ghosts aren’t real. Even if they are, only a freak would like them more than—”

“Demon-Smasher!” one of them burst out urgently. “We got trouble! It’s _them_!”

“Cheese it! Quick!” And then, as suddenly as they had come, the boys were on their scooters and trundling away at top speed.

Slowly, the “Subject” rose to his feet and began dusting himself off. “I know . . .” he said quietly to the air on his right. “Yeah, I saw you trying to smack him with your rubber chicken. If only it’d worked. That would’ve been great to see . . . I know, Detoby; they’re just stupid kids who don’t know anything,” he insisted. “It’s just . . .”

“Take cover!” Dipper hissed at him. “That trundling you’re hearing isn’t the boys riding off!”

The “Subject” sighed heavily. “No, never mind, Detoby . . . Let’s just—”

In a flash, he was encircled again. But this scooter gang had pigtails under their pink helmets, and they pounced on him without wasting any time on preambles.

The “Subject” looked up at the five girls and groaned. “Now _this_ is just embarrassing . . .”

“That sounded like you’re disrespecting the BARBIED WIRE,” their leader growled. In her hand was a jump-rope, and she cracked it like a bullwhip with terrifying proficiency. “I otta Double Dutch you for that. You’re just lucky we’re busy with something else.”

“Yes, ‘lucky’ is the one word that describes my life . . .”

“Shut it. Which way did the RAZOR BLADES go? We’re not stopping ‘til we crush ‘em!”

The “Subject” nodded around the corner. “They went that way. If you really wanna crush them, tell the underlings that you’ll let them go, _but_ _only_ _if_ _all_ _four_ _of_ _them_ punch Demon-Smasher in the gut.”

“We don’t listen to stupid, booger-brained boys!” one of them shrilled.

“Wait, Gretchen. That’s actually not a bad idea,” the leader conceded. “What do we do then?”

“Whatever you want. Tie them up and give them makeovers,” he suggested (a little spitefully). “Double Dutch them. Cut off their hair. What do I care what you do with the punks?”

“Hmm . . . Freaky good idea . . . Your freaky ghosts tell you that?”

“No, because the only ghost here is just standing there trying not to laugh at me,” he growled. “Stop honking that dang horn, Detoby! You’re not helping!” he snapped over the leader’s shoulder. “Yes! I realize I was just taken prisoner by a bunch of racketeering little girls! They got whips, alright?!”

The BARBIED WIRE gang looked at each other. “He’s nutso,” one of them declared.

In a rare moment of philosophy, the leader said, “Maybe nutsoness is the price for smartiness. Tell you what, ghost freak, you get any more of those freaky good ideas, you let me know and we won’t make you pay to walk across BARBIED WIRE turf. Maybe.”

“You’re letting the RAZOR BLADES get away,” was all that the “Subject” offered in response.

“He’s right. Let’s get ‘em, girls! After ‘em!”

Dipper pressed against the hedge as the gang wheeled past. Fortunately, they didn’t look back, and Dipper let out a long sigh of relief that he had escaped.

Once again, the “Subject” rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “You tell anyone about this, and I will never speak to you again . . .” he said warningly. “My life sucks . . . Sucks? Means it blows . . . Well, that means—no. Y’know what? Infer its meaning contextually . . . Yes, it means my life is ‘the pits’. Let’s go home. I’m starving, I’m dirty, and I’m depressed. At least no one saw that . . . You don’t count.”

For his part, Dipper figured it was safe (in every sense of the word) for him to head home, too. He was also starving and dirty, and he had a lot to consider.

Entering through the kitchen door, he was greeted by Stan. “Hey, Dipping Sauce.”

“ARGH!” Dipper ripped out the Eavesdropear. “Yeesh . . . They should put a warning on these: not safe for distances under ten feet . . . Gar . . .”

Taking a bite out of an open can of food, Stan asked hopefully. “I don’t suppose you just suffered severe physical and/or emotional pain?”

“Nah, I’ll live.”

“Dang. We could’ve sued somebody. Been out spying, or what?”

“_Investigating_, Gruncle Stan,” Dipper clarified emphatically. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m okay, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re eating _canned_ _beets_.”

“So what? This is dinner.”

“We’re not Russian serfs facing starvation. That’s what.”

“Might as well be, what with all the money I’m gonna be hemorrhaging . . .” Stan muttered.

“Come again?”

“Nothing. Never mind. If you’re hungry, there’s still some hotdogs from last night.”

Dipper retrieved some. “Thanks. But why are you eating beets when we have hotdogs?”

Though it was the reason, Stand did not say that it was to make sure the kids got enough first; he would never actually say that out loud. Instead, he lied, “Sometimes I just like beets. What’s with the anti-beet third degree, anyway?”

And, too exhausted to recognize this as a lie (on the irrefutable grounds that no one likes beets), Dipper capitulated. “Fine. Whatever. Mabel eaten yet?”

“I think so. I told her she had to eat something, and she and her friends took some food upstairs. They’re still working on something, though, and . . .” Stan hesitated. “And I haven’t been crazy enough to go check. It involves . . . _feminine_ _things_ . . .” he whispered, as though speaking of the plague.

Dipper blanched.

“Exactly . . .” Stan shuddered at the notion. “You’re welcome to hide out down here with me. There’s even a new Duck-Tective on tonight.”

“Maybe in a bit, if that’s okay,” Dipper replied, looking towards his backpack. His mind was on the observations stashed therein. “I need to think about some things first . . .”

“Secret Dipping Sauce, eh?” Stan teased. But he claimed a Diet Pitt and yielded the room.

With his observations arranged before him, Dipper reviewed everything he had seen and heard. “The evidence is compelling, but only circumstantial really . . . It’s impressive, yes, but _insubstantial_ . . .” he eventually determined with disappointment. “My EMF Detector can give me a reading, and I can investigate these two people—Detoby and Whitehawk . . . Then again, I could also manipulate a test. Ask him questions about that dentist—or, even better, about Candy’s Grandmother—then verify them. That would give me some solid proof before . . . before I . . .”

Dipper looked around the empty kitchen. Or did it just appear empty to him?

He wanted so badly for it to just appear to be empty . . .

“Are . . .” he faltered. “Are you . . . h-here?”

For a moment, Dipper was all choked up inside. It almost overcame him—he was only thirteen, after all—but he fought back his emotions and locked them down tight again. He couldn’t break down; he had to be strong. He was the brother, after all. That’s what brothers do.

“Just . . . Just please be here,” he said tightly. To anyone who might be listening. “She needs . . . We still need you . . . Okay?”

The room made no answer.

****

Following Norman upstairs, Detoby said, {I don’t really understand what your old man was complaining about. I’d maim someone for a good piece of anything. Even squash.}

“It was . . . surprisingly good, actually. What movie do you want to watch tonight?”

{Hmm . . .} Looking at the shelf, Detoby paused. {‘The Comedy of Terrors’? A horror-comedy?}

“Well, most horror flicks are basically half-a-step away from being unintentionally comedic,” Norman affirmed in a professorial tone. “Hammy acting, cheesy special effects or costume work, ludicrous plots or monsters; any of these can ruin the fright factor, and therefore make a film laughable. So some embrace that reality—some take two, big steps in the comedic direction and create a spoof of the genre as a whole.”

{Spoof?}

“A parody. This makes them satiric. But a good satire is more than just funny; it reveals a lot about how people are approaching and interpreting the genre by blowing the intricacies and subtleties of the tropes being used completely out of proportion, and making them glaringly obvious. That’s how you can poke fun at them.”

The Jokergeist blinked at the Medium. {Uh huh . . . Sooooo . . . It’s funny?}

“What? ‘The Comedy of Terrors’? Well, it has Vincent Price, and the Price is right. Eh? Eh?”

{I . . . um, don’t know who that is.}

Norman sighed. “That means it’s funny, yes. You wanna watch that one tonight?”

{Please and thank you, Professor Bugaboo.}

Before Norman could put in the disc, however, Elaine called, {Normy? Your father’s tearing up the living room trying to find the remote again!} Passing partially through the door, she asked, {Can you come tell—oh . . . Good evening, Detoby.}

{_Bone-swar-madame-gazelle_. You’re looking lovely as usual.}

{Er . . . Not to be rude, but it’s almost nine on a school night. Don’t you have some other haunt to . . . y’know, haunt?} she hinted.

“C’mon, Grandma! We’re just about to watch a movie!” Norman pleaded.

{Yes ma’am. A comedic horror—possibly a horrific comedy—to put the creepers in our jeepers!}

{That sounds nice, Normy, but you’ve got school. And I’m sure we’ve already taken up enough of Detoby’s time for one evening,} she hinted more forcefully.

But the Jokergeist seemed to be as oblivious to these hints as Norman. {Loathe as I am to contradict my lady love, I’m as flushed with time as a commode in an herb garden.}

{Er . . . come again?}

{I’m saying that if time is money, I’m J.P. Morgan in Antarctica: all the time in the world, but practically nowhere to spend it. This might come as a surprise to you, but . . . Well, most of the other spooky mooks in this burg don’t really enjoy my company,} he admitted with a pathetically stoic smile. {They seem to find me . . . _annoying_, if you can believe that.}

Completely deadpan, Elaine responded, {My shock, it is great.} Her grandson snorted.

{I know! But I can’t . . . really say that I blame them—I’m always ruining the jokes or, apparently, telling offensive jokes by accident. Guess it’s not always that some people can’t take a joke, but that some jokes shouldn’t even be given. Death and learn, am I right? But that’s starting to change thanks to the NorMedium here!}

{There’s always _home_. I’m sure you must be . . . um, living to see your family after a long day,} Elaine hinted with decreasing amounts of subtlety.

{Not so much. There’s just my great-grandson left, and at this hour . . . Odds are more than good he’ll be cuddling a giant photograph of that dago paperwoman he’s keen to bank with. It’s depressing, watching my line fizzle out like that.}

“Dago?” Norman asked.

{Heh. _That_ takes me back . . .} Elaine couldn’t help but chuckle. {I don’t think I’ve heard that one since I last visited my gramps’ house. He used to shout it at his neighbor when they were feuding.}

“But what does it mean?”

{It’s a slur for . . . Who? The Portuguese, I think? Must be; Old Man Salgado was Portuguese . . .}

“A _slur_? Oh, Detoby,” Norman moaned in disappointment. “More racial jokes? Those just aren’t funny . . . And against the _Portuguese_? I mean, what the heck? The freakin’ _Portuguese_?”

{But it’s an _old_ one,} Elaine stated emphatically. {I’m talking archaic. Like the people who used it probably had slurs for subjects of . . . I don’t know. The Ottoman Empire or the Kingdom of Flanders.}

{For both of yours information, it’s not an _insult_; it’s a _description_,} Detobt declared defensively. {And the Ottoman Empire was still in existence for most of my life.}

{It’s an insult, Detoby.}

{No, it’s _not_. It’s a word that describes this beautiful dame he wants to cash his checks on, because _obviously_ her family is from the Iberian Peninsula. _Very_ obviously.}

{But it’s an insult!} Elaine laughed.

{Why would I insult _dagos_? I happen to _like_ dagos! Who doesn’t? The dagos are a generally beautiful and trustworthy people! Unlike those shifty _Welshmen_. My best friend was a dago!}

“Oh my gosh! Stop _saying_ the word!” Norman ordered in exasperation.

{He married a stunning mick, as I recall. I was the best man at their traditional mick wedding, and the godfather to their half-dago-half-mick children. So I suppose that _now_ you’re going to try and convince me that ‘mick’ is an insult, too?} Detoby challenged Elaine.

{Yes! Because it _is_!}

Norman buried his face in his hands. “Jeez! It’s like when Dad watches Gran Torino . . . And that word insults who exactly?”

{Either the Irish of the Scottish. Possibly both?} Elaine ventured.

{It’s a _colorful_ _description_. Like calling someone ‘a kilt’ or ‘a kimono’ or ‘a toga’.}

“Colorful?” Norman repeated incredulously. “Exactly! It’s like calling Mister Whitehawk ‘red’!”

Detoby blinked. {What? No! Are you serious? It’s like that?}

“Yes! Exactly like that!”

{Well, not _exactly_ like that. . .} Elaine interjected. {Again, both ‘dago’ and ‘mick’ are so ancient, it’d be like using an insult from ancient Greece—like ‘cretin’; the meanings have changed.}

Norman sighed. “Let’s just all agree not to use . . . _those_ _words_ anymore. Okay?”

An awkward silence hung over them for a moment.

Elaine broke it. {Truth be told, I always _liked_ the sound of the word ‘dago’—}

“_Grandma_!”

{Or of the name ‘Diego’, at least. Has a nice ring to it. I even considered naming your father that, but your grandfather thought it was too odd. So, naturally, we named him ‘Peregrine’.}

“Can I just watch my movie now?” Norman begged the world. “It’s not that long—Detoby and I can watch it without me losing sleep for tomorrow. Not that that matters much, but . . .”

Elaine relented grudgingly. {_Fine_. But the _second_ it’s over, you’re to go to bed and he’s to go home so you can. Understood?}

{Yes, ma’am.}

Drifting back towards the door, Elaine stopped. {Oh, I almost forgot. Can you tell your father that the remote is behind the couch? He’s driving your mother and me nuts.}

****

Dipper stretched out in the dark. “Did you three finish what you were working on?”

“Still not talking to you,” Mabel replied flatly.

“But you just did.”

“I’m not falling for that this time, Dipstick. You won’t trick me into talking to you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You positive?”

With mounting irritation, Mabel replied, “_Yes_, I’m _positive_.”

“Not even to say ‘Good night, Dipper’ to me?”

“No, not even to say ‘Good night, Dipper’—”

“Good night, Mabel!” Dipper interjected happily.

“. . . you suck . . .”

“Love you, too, Mabel Syrup.”

****

Save a nightlight in the kitchen, all the lights were out when Detoby drifted down the stairs. Everyone had retired to their rooms, leaving the house quiet; only a softly playing radio in the kitchen (which Norman had convinced his family to turn on every night for his grandmother) was audible. Humming along with the song being broadcasted, Elaine floated in a chair and knitted.

Detoby doffed his hat to her. {Just shuffling off now—wanted to say goodnight first. See you tomorrow, O Queen of the Night.}

{Wait a minute,} she called after him.

{Yes? What can I do you for, Your Nocturnal Majesty?}

Setting down her knitting (it immediately vanished into the ether), she gave him a long look. {You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with my grandson lately. Why, exactly?}

{Why?} the Jokergeist repeated, genuinely perplexed. {Why wouldn’t I? He’s good company.}

{Detoby, for all intents and purposes, you’re a forty-something-year-old man hanging around with a thirteen-year-old boy. Can you understand why that might concern me?}

{Um . . . not really,} he answered honestly. {What am I missing?}

Elaine eyed him again for a long moment. Eventually, however, she decided she believed him; he was speaking with the naïf candor of a man completely devoid of malicious thoughts—a fool, but an honest, good-hearted fool. {Well, _that_ is a relief . . .} she murmured. {Settles _one_ of my concerns . . .}

{What concerns? Elaine, I have _no_ _idea_ what you’re talking about,} Detoby objected.

{Listen. I’m not sure if you know this or not, but . . . Recently, Norman lost his best friend. Really, his _only_ friend—}

{Surely not his _only_ friend,} Detoby cut in incredulously. {A kid as kind and generous as he is?}

{You’ve been with him at school. You’ve seen how most other kids are to him,} she said soberly. {He’s different, and people are seldom kind to a person who’s different . . . The point is, he’s vulnerable. Emotionally. So the last thing he needs right now is . . . is . . .} she faltered, searching for the right words. {Someone who doesn’t have his best _long-term_ interests at heart? Do you agree?}

{And how,} Detoby agreed heartily.

{Someone who just wants something from him, and will leave once they get it?}

{Not to worry; I’ll keep any such gold-digging vultures away from him,} he assured her gallantly.

{Oh, for the love of—I’m talking about _you_, Detoby!}

Flabbergasted, he sputtered, {M-_me_? I don’t want anything from him!}

{No? Then why are you always buttering him up?}

{Who’s buttering anyone? I’m as butterless as a priest on Ash Wednesday! Look, Elaine, can we just speak openly?} he implored her. {You’ve got a beef with me. That I get. What I don’t get is: _why_?}

{Alright. Tell me why you’re always hanging out with my grandson.}

{I _already_ told you,} Detoby insisted. {He’s _good_ _company_; it’s _fun_ being around him. And he’s apparently the only person in this whole burg who can stand having me around more than five minutes. I get . . . _lonely_, okay? After _eight_ _damned_ _decades_, it’s nice knowing someone who wants me around. That kind of loneliness could change a man less Determined than I.} He honked his horn halfheartedly.

Skeptically, Elaine pressed him, {You’re not . . . All this isn’t leading up to asking him to resolve some unfinished business for you? So you can move one? Because if so, _just_ _ask_ _him_ and he’ll do it now. Out of the goodness of his heart—that’s what he _does_. But don’t make it so he’ll think he’s losing yet _another_ friend when that happens, because he deserves better than that, Detoby.}

Sorrow was in the Jokergeist’s eyes. {Is that . . . what you think I’m doing?}

{I’m concerned you have an ulterior motive,} she replied delicately. {I have to look out for him.}

For a long moment, Detoby made no reply. He seemed completely lost in painful thoughts. Finally, he cleared his throat. {Have I ever shared my thoughts about laughter with you, Elaine? They say it’s the best medicine, but I’m _convinced_ it’s the _only_ _real_ medicine that counts. A healthy body doesn’t do a broken soul one lick of good—_not_ _one_ _lick_. Laughter is the only medicine for that . . .}

She said nothing; she waited for him to finish.

{Well, the world has been cruel to your grandson. Damned near broken his soul. He’s a sad kid—a sad, downcast, painfully lonely kid. And you’re right; he _doesn’t_ deserve that . . . What do I want?} Detoby asked rhetorically. {I want to make him _laugh_.}

{And that’s it?} Elaine asked, the tone of skepticism ever present. {All you want is to be some sort of _soul_ _doctor_ for him?}

{For him especially, but also for everyone,} Detoby confessed shyly. {Is that such a bad thing?}

Elaine’s tone softened as she answered, {No, but . . . it _is_ naïf. You really think a few laughs can change everything?}

{Yes, I do,} he said with quiet conviction. {The world can be cruel and sad, am I right? If you make someone laugh, though, you _change_ it—for that someone, at least. You might counter that it’s only for a little while. But so what? That’s better than nothing . . . That’s _a_ _whole_ _lot_ better than nothing. So that someone’s world—_their_ _everything_—changes for the better if you make them laugh . . .}

{That’ why you’re always cracking terrible jokes,} Elaine realized.

{Are they . . . Are they really that terrible?}

{Well . . . Maybe not _all_ of them . . .} she said charitably.

{I must admit . . . It makes _me_ happy, too, to be the kind of person who makes others laugh . . . Swell feeling . . . And _maybe_ I believe that, if I can figure out how to make someone as sad as he is laugh, I can figure out how to make _anyone_ laugh—finally recapture that perfect moment . . .} he said longingly {Finally have my existence—my life _and_ my death—mean something worthwhile . . . So _maybe_ I’m not quite as altruistic—}

Elaine interrupted quietly, {That’s not so ulterior as I thought . . .}

Shaken from his thoughts, he looked up. {Hmm?}

{I’m saying . . . I misjudged you, Detoby. And I apologize for that. Besides, Norman _does_ seem more cheerful with you around . . .} she conceded. {If you’re not going to just up and disappear on him, then I suppose I’m happy to have you around him . . .}

{Oh?} The Jokergeist perked up immediately. {Well, thank you, my angel—}

{Don’t push it. Jackass.}

{But if I don’t push it, who will?} The Jokergeist quipped as he rose.

{Detoby . . . Do you want to stay and talk some more?} Elaine offered. {You don’t have to leave.}

Beaming, he settled back down above the chair. {I’d love to. What should we talk about? Oh, I know! Tell me about your lovely self!}

{I thought I said not to push it,} Elaine retorted. {You _seriously_ want to hear about me?}

{I’m always keen to learn more about my friends.}

{Well, alright. I guess . . . Where to begin . . . ?}


	5. Chapter 5

On Thursday morning, Mabel actually awoke before Dipper. She commandeered their bathroom almost immediately, forcing Dipper to use the downstairs one—a fact about which he did not complain because she finally sounded excited again about getting ready for school. She sounded like herself again.

“She can hog the whole upstairs if she goes back to her regular self,” he said to himself.

However, the moment came to depart, and she still hadn’t descended. Five minutes after that, she was still upstairs in the bathroom.

“MABEL!” Stan trumpeted up the stairs. “It’s time to go! You’re gonna be late, then the state’s gonna be all up in my business to find out why, then taxes and—SWEETBREAD PUDDING!” he screamed, falling back from the stairs in fright.

Dipper came running. “What’s the matter, Gru—OH MY! M-_Mabel_?! Is that you?!”

“The Mabel you knew is no more,” she declared confidently.

“Did you . . . kill her? Are you some sort of demon wearing her like a meat-suit?”

“What? No! I’ve just taken a new persona: Lady Mabelladonna!” she said with a regal gesture that made her arms sparkle darkly with countless black bezazzle beads. Indiscernible patterns of them were fixed to the sleeves and collar of her mourning sweater, and to her skirt; they served to fasten on the lace, which highlighted them in turn. About her waist, her wrists, and her neck were strings of sparkly, silver skulls and sparkly silver spiders—all with friendly smiles and bright eyes made of the more colorful bezazzle beads. Rings had been fashioned of them and slipped onto her fingers; earrings, too, were clipped onto her ears.

But the most disconcerting part was her face. White as clumpy snow with inexpertly-applied “Arctic Fox” cream, she looked like a walking cadaver. Her lips and eyes—now pitch black with products that made them seem huge and yet sunken—were made disproportionately prominent, intensifying the cadaverous appearance. In short, she did not look like Mabel.

To crown it all, she wore her presidentially awarded top hat. Plastic silver roses had been pinned all around the ribbon, and long swathes of veil hung from them. They drifted in the air behind her.

Dipper gulped. “Oh boy . . .”

“Duchess of Darkness and Desolation!” Mabel proclaimed with another regal gesture.

“My . . . heart . . .” Stan rasped from the floor.

“But you can call me ‘Your Dark Grace’ if that’s too long. Now, who’s ready to go to school?”

“Mabel, are you . . . um, feeling alright?” Dipper persisted.

She gave him a lofty look. “Ahem?”

Dipper sighed. “Are you feeling alright, _Your Dark Grace_?”

“Life is an endless of void of unfeeling chaos,” she responded primly. “And I’m ready to _ride_ it! C’mon! Let’s hurry, or we’ll be late! I’ve got a new persona to debut!”

Practically pushing both her brother and her great-uncle ahead of her, she hustled to the car.

“Don’t you want some breakfast first?”

“No time! Forward!”

“But—”

“Forward, I say! The Duchess commands you!”

Mabel quivered with excitement all throughout the short car ride. She didn’t even notice when they passed the door on Main Street. Perhaps it was that her thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps it was that she was like her old self again (her goth wardrobe notwithstanding). Regardless, she bounded from the car before Stan had fully parked.

“So, um . . . Do you think she’s alright, Gruncle Stan?” Dipper asked worriedly.

“Well, she looks terrifying, but . . . She’s actually _smiling_ under that . . . demonic visage.”

“Yeah, it’s just . . . Goth? _Mabel_?” Dipper voiced incredulously.

“It’s a phase, Dipping Sauce. Admittedly, I’d have preferred one a little less . . .” He grimaced. “_This_. But she’ll grow out of it when she’s ready . . . Prob’ly . . . Hopefully . . . I mean, yeesh . . .”

By the time Dipper slid out, the milling students had coalesced into a single crowd of spectators. Their attention was fixed solely on Mabel. Murmurs of surprise, of disbelief, of ridicule, and even some of admiration buzzed among them like a swarm.

Grenda and Candy were at its front, however, gushing their delight at a Mabel who was probably flushed with excitement under all that makeup. “O! M! G! You look fantastic!” Candy squealed, while Grenda declared, “You’re a goth supermodel!”

“You really think so?”

“Look at them! All their eyes are on you!” Grenda said with a gesture to the crowd.

Dipper looked from his sister and her friends to the crowd. Then he shook his head and shouldered his way forward. “I’ve got an investigation to do . . .”

The murmurs became words around him.

“ . . . What is that she’s wearing? It looks freaky . . .”

“. . . It’s so sparkly . . .”

“. . . Baby, you’ve got it all wrong! Julia means _nothing_ to me . . .”

“. . . Isn’t that _Mabel Pines_? Is _she_ going _goth_? Now _that’s_ ironic . . .”

“. . . Weirdo . . .”

“. . . She’s not a vampire. She’s just batcrap insane. That’s what’s on her face . . .”

“. . . I love that hat. Hats need to make a comeback in the world of fashion . . .”

“. . . Always knew she was more than a little nuts. She lives in the Mystery Shack, after all . . .”

“. . . No, see, you wanna take out the weaker ones first during that fight, because they can deal some major status effects . . .”

“. . . Whoa. Just whoa. Freaky whoa . . .”

“. . . Bold look, that’s for sure . . .”

“. . . Where do you think she got the jewelry? I like it . . .”

“. . . I will arm wrestle you right now! Come at me, bro. Come at me . . .”

“. . . Why would you wear something like that today? It’s not Summerween or Halloween . . .”

“. . . I thought vampire freaks only came out at night . . .”

Dipper bumped into Gideon just outside the entrance, yet the rhinestone of a boy didn’t notice. He was slack-jawed at the sight of this new Mabel. “My . . . my _marshmallow_ . . .” he mumbled numbly. “My . . . _smoldering_ marshmallow—dark and _smoking_ _hot_ on the outside, but soft and sweet and warm on the inside . . .” He blushed pink and giggled to himself. “Beguiling! Utterly beguiling!”

“Stop talking about my sister like that, you little creeper!” Dipper snapped at him.

“Oh, Dipper Pines! I didn’t see you there. And more’s the pity that I see you now.”

“I mean it, man. Leave her alone,” Dipper threatened him quietly.

“Oh, I’ll leave her alone alright . . . I’ll leave her alone—_forever_!” Gideon replied sinisterly.

A moment of silence hung between them. “What?” Dipper finally said.

“No, wait a minute. That didn’t come out right,” Gideon realized. “Um . . . Okay, I’ve got one. Dipper, say ‘leave her alone’ again.”

“No!”

At that moment, Pacifica and her entourage of minions approached the entrance, too. “Move it, peons. Someone important coming through. Oh, Dipper. I see your sister is sporting a new look. But isn’t the whole ‘insane mime thing’ a bit dated? So nineties . . .” She sighed theatrically. “If only she _sounded_ like a mime . . .”

She clicked her fingers, and the minions cackled in chorus.

“What did she ever do to you?! Why can’t you people just leave her alone?!” Dipper demanded.

“Aha!” Gideon exclaimed triumphantly. “I’ll leave—Hey! Where you going?! I haven’t said my line yet! Get back here, boy!”

As Dipper marched away from Gideon and Pacifica, a fourteen-year-old with black nail polish and a recent tongue stud dashed past him. This fourteen-year-old ran for the darkened auditorium and the old, ratty couch left there. A shadowy form sat enthroned thereon. Falling to one knee before this shadowy throne and this shadowy personage, an indistinct slur emerged past the newly studded tongue. “Yo Gwan Gothnuth! Uh bwin wowd ov uh noo goth pwethumtif!”

The form sighed in exasperation, then clicked fingers bejeweled with ossuary-themed rings. They were immaculate in their black-polish manicuring. “Keeper of the Precepts?”

A chubby boy of seventeen in a black, floor-length cloak (an honest-to-goodness cloak) lined with red, and with a collar popped so high it brushed his ears, stepped forward from the entourage.

“You speak the Studded Tongue. Translate,” the shadowy form ordered.

“The Acolyte brings word, Your Grand Gothness, of a new goth presumptive.”

“What _impertinence_ is this?! Who _dares_ take the black without first bending the knee?!”

Tremblingly, the fourteen-year-old answered, “Ith uh guul! Yun. Thitee, pewthath?”

“A girl, perhaps of thirteen years,” the Keeper of the Precepts interpreted. “If I may, it is possible she does not know our weirding ways. Likely she does not know that all who would join the Dark Order must first seek an audience with the Grand Goth of the Local Consortium to be initiated.”

“Perhaps you are right . . .” the shadowy Grand Goth conceded. “It does behoove our greatness to be merciful . . . Tell me, what else do we know of this pretender?”

The fourteen-year-old shrugged.

“Send out word to all the Consortium. We must know who she is and correct her transgression. If she is worthy, we shall welcome her into the fold. Let my proclamation so be texted!” And with that, the Grand Goth rapped the metal tip of an umbrella against the ground as a judge might rap a gavel.

Within seconds, the message had been texted. <new gp 13ish grl GG ,and details kthnx>*

“You have served the Consortium well, Acolyte,” the Grand Goth praised the fourteen-year-old. “Such service ought to be recompensed. I hereby promote you to the rank of Catechumen, with all the attendant accessory privileges thereunto bestowed.”

“Than oo, Yo Gwan Gothnuth! Uh a onowt—”

“Yes, yes, you’re not worthy and all that.” The Grand Goth rose with a rustle of black trenchcoat and a rattle of many chains. The umbrella (which had a bone handle fashioned to resemble the grinning head of Jack Skellington) was extracted from the couch and opened to protect the delicate pallor of its exalted holder. “Procure some new eyeliner and a piercing of your choice. And send for my palanquin; it’s almost time for ceramics class.”

“Ah woth, Yo Gwan Gothnuth!”

****

Seeing the locker of the “Subject”, Dipper felt a sadness settle in his chest. Someone had scrawled a ghostly Hiya Kitten over it with a speech bubble saying “Boo!”

“Do I have time to clean it?” he wondered aloud. “Before he . . . Dang. Guess not . . .”

The “Subject” eyed the scrawl with heavy detachment; he did not glance around, only sideways once before giving a barely detectable shake of the head. Then he pulled out a spraybottle and a cloth. Both were used to scrub the locker clean.

“Man . . . He looks way too practiced at that . . .” Dipper observed somberly.

The bell rang, and the “Subject” set off at a shuffle for his first class.

Following, Dipper drew his EMF Detector. “No time like the present to get proof for science.”

He pointed it at the back of the “Subject” and flicked the on switch. But nothing happened—absolutely no lights flashed. Shaking it fixed nothing. Flipping it over, he pried open the battery slot. Empty, save for a little post-it note.

“I.O.U. batteries,” he read flatly. It was signed “Mabel :D” in a flowery script.

Looking up, Dipper saw the “Subject” enter the chemistry lab. It gave him the impression that Science was toying with him—that Science felt like being a cruel mistress today.

After that, he had to run so as not to be late for gym class. Once there, he had to run so as not to fail gum class. As soon as the bell rang, he had to run so as not to be derailed by gym class in his investigation. All in all, he entered English class (behind the “Subject”) feeling out of breath.

The class itself was par for the course. Miz Atticals, upon seeing Mabel, let out an exclamation, “OHMYLORD . . . _Byron_ _Anthology_! What a, er, _striking_ ensemble you have there! Very monochromatic.” When her back was turned, a steady barrage of notes and debris were directed at both the “Subject” and at Mabel. Fortunately for the latter of these two, Candy and Grenda swiftly determined that such should be intercepted, and they managed to block nearly all of them (the one note that sailed past them failed to penetrate the veils around her hat—Mabel didn’t even notice); unfortunately for the former, no one but Dipper cared enough to shield him, and Dipper was unable to stop more than one or two.

In other words, it was a long class period for all (made all the longer by a Robert Frost poem). The end of it sent all but one to lunch, and that last one leaned against the door to muse (drink) about the road currently being traveled.

Dipper hung back strategically from the main rush, watching the “Subject” shuffle unobtrusively into the lunch line. No conversation was attempted with the people ahead or behind of him—kids that were with groups already—the “Subject” just advanced with head bowed and eyes lowered. As always, he avoided attracting any and all attention, though he did glance to the side on two separate occasions. Once he nodded almost imperceptibly, the other time he seemed to smile.

“Hmm . . .” Pursing his lips, Dipper retrieved his observations and skimmed over them again. “No batteries, no proof . . . But do I really need more?” he asked himself frankly. “What do I believe? Cards on the table, even if I am playing solitaire. The question is: can the ‘Subject’ see ghosts? Yes or no? Well . . .” He hesitated within himself. “Possibly. Um, it’s not _im_possible. It could happen. In this town? Yeah, it’s plausible. Maybable even—er, Maybe it’s probable, even. It’s . . .”

In that moment, something occurred to Dipper which gave him pause. The words had come tumbling out of his mouth together, and so formed something entirely different than what he meant, yet something entirely significant. He wondered how he had failed to see it before now.

“Mabel . . .” he said quietly. “Always alone. Always sad. Always made fun of . . . just for being different . . . He’s like Mabel . . . Except she’s got me, Candy and Grenda, and he hasn’t got anyone . . .”

And in that moment, something else occurred to Dipper. It seemed so obvious and so right that he wondered how he had failed to think of it before then. He even felt a little ashamed of himself again.

A lunch selected, the “Subject”—no. _Norman Babcock_ shuffled unobtrusively from the cafeteria. No one noticed but Dipper. Even if they had noticed, no one but Dipper knew where Norman was going. But Dipper did know, and he rose to his feet; he’d made a decision.

The world can be cruel, but the world can be changed.

****

Every goth in William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School, at the behest of the Grand Goth, assembled during lunch. Thus did the combined force of the Gravity Falls Consortium encircle the table where the so-called Lady Maybelladonna sat (sorta eating) with Grenda and Candy.

The lunchroom fell silent, watching curiously.

“Um . . . Hi?” Candy said to the mass of white-painted faces, black-dyed hairstyles, and piercings surrounding them. “Do you . . . want to sit down with us?”

The girls watched as a chubby boy swept forward in a red-lined cloak. “Salutations. I am the Keeper of the Precepts and the Holder of the _Gothicnomicon_ for the Gravity Falls region.”

Grenda exchanged a glance with the others girls. “Congratulations?”

“And you are?” the Keeper of the Precepts asked Mabel.

“She is Lady Mabelladonna, Duchess of Darkness and Desolation,” Grenda announced proudly. “But you can call her ‘Your Dark Grace’.”

The Consortium gasped collectively. A murmur of discontent ran through their ranks.

“You have the _AUDACITY_ to name yourself a _Duchess_ of the Dark Order?!” a voice bellowed.

The Keeper of the Precepts spun towards the voice. “ALL HAIL THE GRAND GOTH!” The other goths fell to one knee before a palanquin draped in black felt.

Mabel looked to Grenda and Candy in alarm. “What the heck is going on?!”

“I have no idea!” Candy answered.

“I’m frightened! Hold me, Candy!” Grenda said.

With an umbrella held overhead for protection against the harmful rays of the lunchroom lights, an androgynous form descended from the palanquin. Impossible to say if it was male or female, though it was draped in a black trenchcoat and glittered with chains and all manner of occult jewelry. Dark hair such as only chemicals can produce hung freely to its waist. Its face was a mask of white and black paints that Gene “The Demon” Simmons would have considered “maybe a bit much”. This was the Grand Goth, advancing in wrath and glory. “When even I, formerly Ebony Ravenspath, was but a Patrician?!”

“Um . . . What?” Mabel asked.

“Do you not kneel before true nobility, you blasphemous little upstart?”

“I’m already sitting,” Mabel answered uncertainly. “Sorry? You . . . can sit, too. If you want.”

“_Audacity_,” the Grand Goth spat. “Tell me, by what right do you presume to take the black?”

“You mean . . . dressing up like this? I dunno. I just felt like being goth for a bit.”

“One does not simply wrap oneself in black trappings and call oneself a goth. Gothness is _not_ some passing amusement one can claim and discard on a whim or a mood swing.”

“Says who?”

“_Says who_?!” the Grand Goth repeated incredulously. “Says the Precepts!”

“And why should I care about what some old book says?”

The Consortium gasped collectively. Someone hissed, “Bite your tongue, heretic!”

In cold fury, the Grand Goth sneered down at Mabel, “You certainly look the part, don’t you?”

“Hey! We made all that stuff ourselves!” Grenda retorted indignantly.

“Obviously. Googly-eyed jewelry? Lace bezzazled to yarn with plastic gems? And your makeup looks like it was done by a toddler. A blind one. With no hands—possibly due to cancer. Nice hat, though (minus those atrocious roses).”

Mabel flushed in embarrassment, but it soon fueled a burning ire. “At least I’m not going around with a _parasol_ open indoors.”

“This is the Umbral Umbrella of Gravity Falls, symbol of my authority as Grand Goth.”

“It has a _Disney_ _character_ on it, and you brought it to school,” Mabel retorted. “What are you? Eight? Nine?”

“Jack Skellington is a cultural icon, you . . . you _poseur_!”

The Consortium gasped collectively. One of them swooned (though this might have been partly due to her extra-large frame being corseted into an extra-small bodice). The Keeper of the Precepts whispered fearfully, “Your Grand Gothness, are you sure it is wise to utter the Most Deplorable Word of the Dark Order so rashly?”

“Rash? It is practically written all over this blasphemer’s face! Poseur I proclaim her! _Poseur_!”

“So? Why would I care what you think?” Mabel demanded indignantly.

The Consortium gasped collectively yet again. They seemed to be easily scandalized.

“Ha!” the Grand Goth laughed scornfully. “You only prove your ignorance of the Dark Order.”

“Or my apathy. I don’t need your permission to dress the way I want.”

With the smile of a chessmaster moving someone into checkmate, the Grand Goth inquired, “What exactly inspired your gothic mood then, huh? Did Mommy and Daddy not take you to see . . . What drivel is it barely-teen girls like this month? One Direction?”

Candy and Grenda gasped this time, for grief spasmed across Mabel’s painted face. But she was too angry to weep now; she bit on her lower lip until it stopped trembling, then countered in a barely controlled voice, “Maybe that’s why _you_ started. But my p-parents are both . . . they’re both d-_dead_.”

“Wait. W-what?” the Grand Goth sputtered, utterly discomfited.

“So that’s why I felt like wearing something dark and gloomy, and why I’m going to keep wearing stuff that’s dark and gloomy until I feel like wearing something else! And your Consortium of _buttfaces_,” Mabel said with a sharp prod to the soft belly of the Grand Goth, “or anyone else who thinks they can tell me what to do, can go stick their butts which are faces up their butts which are actual butts for all I care and LEAVE!” Prod. “ME!” Prod. “THE HECK!” Prod. “ALONE!” Shove.

Brandishing the Umbral Umbrella, the Grand Goth snarled, “You dare lay a hand—”

Mabel knocked the Umbral Umbrella from the hands of the Grand Goth, seized on a nose ring, and yanked straight down!

The Consortium gasped collectively as it clattered to the ground (but, to be fair, so did everyone in the lunchroom this time). “She _ripped_ _out_ the Grand Goth’s nose ring . . .”

It was then that the Keeper of the Precepts realized something. “Wait. Why isn’t there any _blood_?” Stooping to pick up the accessory, he saw the awful truth. “It’s a _clip_-_on_ . . .”

“No! It’s not!” the Grand Goth protested.

“It is!” the Keeper of the Precepts insisted, holding it aloft. “You’re a . . . _All_ _along_, you were . . .”

A dozen goths laid hands on the Grand Goth, taking hold of ears, eyebrows, and lips.

“This is a clip-on, too!” one goth shouted, while another goth said, “All the left earrings, too!”

“Are they all clip-ons?!” the Keeper of the Precepts asked heart-wrenchingly.

“The hair, too. It’s all _extensions_! It’s barely even shoulder-length!”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been _practical_ to have hair that long _all_ the time!” the Grand Goth explained desperately. “And, okay, so I don’t like needles actually piercing through my skin! But . . . C’mon, it’s not like that’s really _necessary_ to be a real goth!”

“You bite your studless tongue!”

“Heresy! Heresy! It burns my ear piercings!”

“Poseur! Imposter!”

One of the goths bent to pick up the fallen Umbral Umbrella. “But who is now the Grand Goth? Keeper of the Precepts, is it not . . .”

All eyes turned to Mabel.

The Keeper of the Precepts pulled a tome bound in leather from within the folds of his cloak. “The Precepts do state that—”

The Grand Goth cried out in fury, “You can’t be serious!”

“THE OLD GOTH IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE GOTH!” And, on bended knee, the Umbral Umbrella was offered to Mabel.

“What?!” she snapped, confused and still quite emotional. “I don’t want it!”

“THE OLD GOTH IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE GOTH!”

“You _can’t_ do this! I was the _best_ leader this Consortium ever had!” the Grand Goth howled.

“Yeah!” some protested. “She’s the _real_ poseur!”

“THE OLD GOTH IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE GOTH!”

Several goths swept forward and raised Mabel (very much against her will) onto the palanquin, thrusting the Umbral Umbrella into her hands. “ALL HAIL THE GRAND GOTH!”

“What do you command, Your Dark Grace?” the Keeper of the Precepts asked.

“PUT ME DOWN, YOU BUTTFACES!” Mabel screamed, swinging the Umbral Umbrella indiscriminately left and right.

“Ow! Ah! Mercy, Your Dark Grace!” one palanquin bearer begged. “We’re putting you down! _We’re putting you down_!” the other shouted.

“What would you have us do now?” the Keeper of the Precepts begged to know.

Mabel, nearly on the verge of tears of sorrow and rage, panted, “J-just leave me the heck _alone_! Why can’t . . . Why c-can’t you all just _leave me alone_?!”

“But Your Dark Grace is the Grand Goth!” he insisted. “You hold the Umbral Umbrella! What are we to do? Command us!”

“BLARG!” Mabel swung the Umbral Umbrella against a bench, snapping it in two.

The Consortium gasped collectively. Everyone gasped collectively. It was a gasp-worthy act.

Tears streamed down Mabel’s face as she threw the broken Umbral Umbrella at the feet of the Keeper of the Precepts. And then she ran, sobbing, from the lunchroom.

“Oh no she didn’t . . .”

“Oh yes she did . . .”

“She did . . .” the Keeper of the Precepts murmured in a daze. And then, a darkness dusked in his eyes—a gothic epiphany. “_She did_! But . . . can it be?!” And he leafed frantically to the final pages of the _Gothicnomicon_.

“Sacrilege!” the former Grand Goth shrieked. “Faithful goths, to me!”

“NO!” the Keeper of the Precepts yelled. “She is the Grand Goth now, and possibly even the Promised One who shall lead us to Dark Glory! FAITHFUL GOTHS, TO ME!”

Candy and Grenda, unable to flee as Mabel had done, wisely dove for cover under the table.

Things then got real. Or, perhaps more accurately, they got very surreal.

****

{Let me tell you, Bugaboo, I miss chow. Even trench ration chow. Even wop chow like that pasta on your plate-a.}

“Whopped chow? What does that mean?” Norman asked as they slipped under the bleachers.

{Not whopped. _Wop_. It means ‘Italian’,} Detoby explained.

“Does it mean ‘Italian’ like that D-word means ‘Portuguese’?” the boy Medium challenged him suspiciously.

{What? No!} the Jokergeist insisted. {Well . . . Okay. Maybe . . .}

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought.” Settling against the wall, Norman suggested, “So you shouldn’t say it.”

{Or what? Will some mafia button man come to fit me with a pair of cement clogs? I tell you, Bugaboo, that idea might just scare me _half_ to death.} And Detoby honked his spectral horn.

“_Detoby_.”

{Oh, alright.} With a sigh, the ghost declared, {Things were a lot easier when I was alive . . .}

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not missing much . . .” Norman told him glumly. He eyed the pasta on his tray dubiously and prodded it with a fork. It jiggled. He was fairly sure pasta wasn’t _ever_ supposed to jiggle.

{Applesauce to that.}

“Ew. It’s _tomato_ sauce. Who puts applesauce on _spaghetti_?”

Glummer than Norman, Detoby explained, {I meant that even that chow looks delicks to me . . . I’d swap my rubber chicken to be able to eat a plate of it. I’m not _hungry_, but I miss the pleasure of food. You’ve got the jeepers peepers, so you’ve seen how being a ghost can be dullness in spades, right?}

“Yeah,” Norman admitted. “Grandma says she keeps knitting because it’s something to do.”

{Plus, while I was alive, I actually liked _Italian_ chow,} Detoby said with a conciliatory sarcasm.

“It’s not bad. Actually, you know what kind of food I _really_ like?”

“Um. Ahem. Excuse me?”

Norman started around at the voice. And then his breath caught in his chest.

A boy was stepping under the bleachers, a boy with a thick shag of hair somewhere between wavy and curly. It was the color of milk chocolate, as were his eyes, which were soft, big, and bright; they were like a puppy’s eyes, being friendly, unafraid, and full of a candid and inquisitive intelligence. His roundish button of a nose was slightly pinker (from the sun) than the rest of his face, which sat under a blue hat with a blue pine tree on it. He was smiling in an open (if somewhat awkward) way. And, in the sunlight, he seemed to shine.

An unexpected thought popped into the Medium’s head: He’s really cute.

Norman had never thought that before. Not about _anyone_, let alone another boy he hadn’t met. It surprised him. It confused him. It even made him feel . . . dizzy is perhaps the closest possible word. Yet, oddly enough, it exhilarated him too.

And for the rest of his life, Norman would never forget that first unbidden thought from when he first met Dipper.

“Um . . . Hi? Hello? Howdy?”

{What’s with you, Bugaboo? Your eyes are dinner-plating.}

“Oh. Is there . . . er, _one_ behind me?” Dipper asked a little nervously.

{It’s rude to stare. And why are you going all red?}

“W-what?” Norman stammered at the world in general. His heart, which had felt like it stopped, was suddenly beating twice as fast. All that blood felt like it was in his head, for his cheeks were aflame and his thoughts were sluggish—like they had to swim against the pulsing current.

“Um . . . Okay. I’m Dipper. We have a few classes together,” the behatted boy started in a rush, feeling too embarrassed to back out of his overture of friendship now. “And, um . . . and so . . . uh, yeah. I was wondering who you keep talking to.” He sat against the wall, though with one of the bleacher’s support beams between them. A barrier against awkwardness.

Looking away warily, Norman murmured, “N-no one . . . I just t-talk to myself s-sometimes—”

“Man, c’mon,” Dipper said with friendly exasperation. “I already _know_ about the ghost thing. _Everyone’s_ talking about it, and my investi—um . . . myinvestigationhasconfirmedthatit’strue,” he said in a swift undertone. “Er. It’s _cool_. So I . . . I wanna know—I mean I’d _like_ to be introduced to the ghost.”

Utterly incredulous, Norman stared at Dipper. “You . . . believe me?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“J-just like that?”

“Sure. Why not? A boy who can see ghosts,” Dipper summed it up breezily. “Makes more sense than like _half_ the things I’ve seen in Gravity Falls . . . _and_ that about half the things I’ve seen here want to make my twin sister their queen.”

The Medium blinked. “What?”

“Exactly. So your name is . . . Norman, right?”

“N-Norman Babcock.”

“And your friend?”

“Um . . .” The Medium looked to the Jokergeist for help.

Shrugging, he replied, {Can’t hurt, right? Go ahead.}

“Th-this is Tobias Determined. But ‘Detoby’ to his friends.”

{Which includes him now.}

“Which, he s-says, includes you now. If you l-like.”

“Uh, where is he?” Dipper inquired. Norman made a gesture, and Dipper looked straight at it. “Nice to meet you, Detoby. Is, um . . . I don’t suppose Toby Determined of ‘The Gossiper’ is a relative?”

{He’s my great-grandson,} Detoby stated proudly. {And keeping the family business alive.}

Norman transmitted all this, and Dipper replied, “I’ve met him a couple of times.”

{Didn’t you and the local dicks once—}

“The local _what_?!” Norman interrupted, utterly scandalized.

{Detectives. Didn’t you once raid his place, or was that another kid?}

Norman transmitted this as well, and Dipper squirmed a little. “Well, once I did kinda accuse him of murder. Wax murder, anyway. But, in my defense, the case against him was pretty airtight.”

Slack-jawed, the Medium spoke for himself and Detoby. “Wax murder?”

“Just one of the things I’ve seen here. Like I said, this town is weird. Have you, like, noticed anything really strange yourself?”

“I th-think I kinda have a higher ‘strange’ threshold than m-most people.”

“I’ll bet,” Dipper agreed. “But this town’ll surpass even that. It where weird meets strange.”

“I don’t know. Ghosts can be p-pretty weird just by themselves, but they’re not all I’ve seen . . .” Norman said shyly.

“Like what?”

{Yeah, like what? What could be stranger than _mwa_?}

Norman looked away from the behatted boy. “I d-don’t think you’d believe me . . .”

“I don’t think you’d believe _me_,” Dipper countered. “We could agree to be completely honest and just believe each other? Maybe try to prove what we can, but just take everything else on trust?”

Norman looked back up hopefully. Every time he looked at this Dipper, his heart skipped a beat. Not in a bad way, but definitely in a confusing way. And this offer? Even more confusing. People weren’t this nice to him—not living people. Only Neil, and he . . . he was gone . . .

So why? Just why? To _everything_.

{Bugaboo? You going to say something?}

“Why?” Norman asked timidly.

“Why what?” Dipper asked.

“Why are you here? T-talking to me? No one’s ever . . . Is this leading up to some p-prank?”

Dipper looked away this time. “Honestly? I feel bad for how you’ve been treated by people here. And I feel bad for not doing anything to stop it, because I . . . Basically, we’re both new at this school,” he stated afresh. “It seemed to me that maybe . . . we could both use a friend . . .”

{Huh. How about that?} Detoby said. {What do you think?}

Norman made no reply. It just seemed too good to be true, but he wanted it to be true so much; he could not deny that. And it surprised him—that he cared now when he tried so hard not to ever care. Didn’t caring only lead to pain?

“Y’know, if you want . . .” Dipper offered awkwardly. The barrier wasn’t holding, and it couldn’t take much more.

Swallowing, Norman intoned, “M-maybe. I guess. If, y’know, _you_ want.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Cool.”

Silence.

{So this is awkward. Now what?} Detoby asked.

And, immediately after, Dipper said, “So . . . This is awkward. Now what?”

In spite of himself, Norman started laughing. Then Dipper started laughing.

****

A knock at the Principal’s office.

“Sorry to interrupt but, uh, I thought you should know the goths are rioting in the lunchroom . . . It seems they’re having some sorta civil war.”

The Principal sighed. “Why, exactly?”

“According to the kitchen staff, it seems that the Grand Goth has been deposed for a new one, and the Keeper of the Precepts is trying to subdue the fringe of reactionary loyalists back into line.”

“The school medic been dispatched?”

“Doing triage now.”

“Good . . . Good . . . Anything important to report?”

“Um. No. You’re taking this with remarkable sangfroid, if I may say so.”

“You’re new with us right?” the Principal asked calmly. “So you don’t know how this school is. Did you know that last year the Glee Club staged a coup against the Student Body Officers and established a musical junta?”

“Seriously?”

“That’s not even the best part. The French Club formed a Resistance and barricaded a hallway. Desks. Chairs. You name it. Everything. Spent the whole day singing songs from Les Mis. When we sent the French Teacher to get them back to class, she defected in exchange for getting a solo performance of ‘I Dreamed a Dream’. That was a bad day to stop drinking Kraft Real Mayo, let me tell you . . .”

“Well . . . What do you expect from a woman named Bernadette Arnold? Was she any good?”

“Let’s just say she ain’t no Anne Hathaway.”

“How’d everything resolve?”

“The French Club now has a veto vote on the musical junta, which still exists. Every resolution has to be introduced in song. But student government is meaningless, so . . .” The Principal shrugged. “You think it’ll faze me to hear the goths are having a Lunch Period of the Long Knives? I’m surprised, quite frankly, that it didn’t happen _sooner_ . . .”

“So how do we discipline them?”

“Meh. Give detention to everyone the medic has to treat, and call it good.”

****

In a corner of the girls’ bathroom, Mabel tried to stop crying. It was a while before she could. The rest of her school day was predictably miserable. She practically spent it in Sweater Town.

Candy and Grenda (and a decent segment of the student body) were in a shell-shocked state, flinching every time they saw an unusual hairdo or a trenchcoat. It wasn’t until well after school that they recovered enough to even talk about it. They will probably carry the scars for the rest of their lives.

As for Dipper and Norman (and Detoby by extension), their day was the best day in months. They managed to become study partners in geography, and spent most of the class period cracking wise about Djibouti. When they finally got back on topic, they cracked wise about North and Central America (with the Caribbean Islands, too), such as:

Some of these capital cities are really hard to remember. You better Belize they are.

Bel . . . mopan about it won’t help anything.

If you think Tegucigalpa is difficult, you’ll need more Hondurans to get through this exercise.

It Cuban worse, I suppse.

Havana other go at it. You’ll get it eventually.

Shut up. Jamaican me crazy with all this D.R.ivel.

Don’t be Haitian on me, Cayman?

Dipper’s presence didn’t initially deter the barrage of notes and paper balls directed at Norman; however, after he returned fire once or twice, it petered out (perhaps because he inadvertently nailed one of their attackers in the eye). After all, nothing is a better deterrent than the threat of tit for T.A.T. (Trinidad and Tobago).

Their friendship seemed to be well on its way to blossoming; the soil of bad puns is fertile, nurturing amity surprisingly well. Or perhaps not surprisingly, as friendship is (at least) 64% bad jokes, according to (social) science.

“S-so . . .” Norman began diffidently as they packed up at the end of class. “You wanna maybe—I dunno—come h-hang out over at my place?”

“Okay. Sounds cool,” Dipper agreed at once.

“Really?” Norman asked, trying hard to hide his unexpected elation. “Cool! I mean, I g-guess . . .”

While they walked off together, however, Mabel waited for Dipper at his locker. At a time like this, after such an ordeal, she just wanted some comfort from her twin brother—her built-in best friend. But he didn’t come; she waited a full fifteen minutes, and he didn’t come. “Dipstick . . .” she muttered when she finally gave up on him.

“Hey, Mabel Syrup,” her great-uncle greeted her as she slouched into the car. “You okay?”

“Can we . . . can we just go home, Gruncle Stan? Please?”

“I . . . Sure thing,” he answered kindly.

As they drove down Main Street, that door at #13 stood waiting to greet her. Like an old friend. Reality bent around it again, pulling her (and everything closer). But why? And why didn’t it affect her like everyone else? Why did it feel like it was looking back at her, if it was just a door?

**LONELINESS**

For the first time, it occurred to Mabel that maybe the voice was . . . sympathizing with her. Perhaps it didn’t want anything from her—unlike everyone else, who seemed to want her to pretend that she felt something she just did not have in her. “Not really caring what I feel . . .” she heard herself say aloud. Much to her surprise.

But the door . . . which maybe wasn’t just a door, after all . . . maybe it understood. And maybe all it wanted was to let her speak. Not do anything; not be anything; just say what she wanted to say, even if all she wanted to do was scream at the world and scream at herself. Scream at the people who should be listening to her, but weren’t! Scream at the people who should be there for her, but weren’t! “The door understands!” she heard herself say aloud. “It understands what it’s like to be so lonely that you just want to be alone even more! Because no one understands that! No one but the door! And—”

Mabel stopped yelling. She stopped herself, because what she was yelling didn’t make sense. “No, wait . . . It’s _just_ a _door_ . . .”

“Hmm? You say something?” Gruncle Stan asked her.

Mabel jerked around. The car was moving, and reality was straight again. Everything was, except for her head; that felt . . . strange . . .

“N-no . . . Just eager to be home . . . Crappy day, y’know?”

****

“Are there a lot of ghosts in Gravity Falls?” Dipper asked Norman. “Do you know them all?”

“I g-guess there’s a lot, yeah. I know a lot of them. I th-think,” the Medium added uncertainly.

“What are they like?”

{Dapper and darb and delightfully duded up,} Detoby interjected. {Oh wait. That’s just me.}

“Heh. They’re . . . well, people,” Norman replied simply. “Just regular people. For the most part. I would say they’re generally n-nicer—to me, at least—but they’re . . . just regular people.”

“Really? Because I met two that weren’t all that nice,” Dipper recalled with a shudder.

Norman stopped and stared at Dipper. “You _met_ them? _You_? B-but you’re not a Medium . . . Were they p-poltergeists, if you saw them?” he asked incisively.

“I dunno. Maybe? They made everything in their store move, like in that movie.”

Pursing his lips, Norman nodded. “Sounds like poltergeists. Um . . . M-most ghosts can’t manifest enough to do that—”

“Manifest?” Dipper repeated questioningly.

“Y’know, make themselves known?” With a vague gesticulation, Norman explained, “Sometimes people say they hear a voice or footsteps or something—maybe catch a glimpse of someone in a corner or in the mirror? Or things seem to move around the room all on their own? _That_ is a ‘manifestation’. But most ghosts only have the . . . the e-_energy_, I guess you’d say, to do little stuff like that every now and then. Poltergeists, on the other hand,” he continued with a shudder. “I don’t know how, but once they get upset, th-they have the energy to _really_ do some d-damage. I think it’s b-because they have a powerful, negative emotion fueling them, maybe?”

“They were _angry_, that’s for sure. They did _not_ like us being in their store.”

{Store? Is this Pa and Ma near the highway?}

“Um. Detoby asks if this was ‘Pa and Ma near the highway’?”

Now it was Dipper’s turn to stare. He looked surprised and impressed. “Yeah.”

{You _went_ in their store?!} Detoby burst out, though only Norman could hear him. {Are you soft in the head?!}

“I’m g-guessing they didn’t like you being in their store?”

“You could say that.” Dipper recounted, “They flung stuff at us and trapped some of my friends in, like, the security camera. Then they appeared and demanded . . . Er, long story short: they let us go,” he glossed over the experience. “Eventually. It’s really nothing worth retelling.”

“Don’t _ever_ go back there,” Norman ordered him. “They could’ve really hurt you!”

“Jeez, calm down, man. Everything was fine in the end,” Dipper snorted.

Norman blushed; he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “S-sorry.”

“Not that you need to tell me,” the behatted boy added. “Never going back there again. Nope. Especially now that I actually am a teenager.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Oh. They hate teens in general.”

{Well, in my compatriots’ defense, I did hear some teenagers killed them.}

“Teenagers _killed_ them?!” Norman repeated incredulously.

“Whoa . . .” Dipper mouthed. “You know that, too?”

With an intensity that would grind coal into diamonds, Norman rounded on Dipper again. “Never, _ever_, _EVER_ go back there. They’re not just angry; they’re _vengeful_! And they might take that out on anyone—even you!”

“Okay!” Dipper capitulated. “Just calm do—”

“No! Do you have _any_ _idea_ how d-dangerous a poltergeist can be?!”

“I think I kinda do now.”

“No, you don’t! They can . . .” Norman forced himself to stop and take a deep breath. “S-sorry. They’re people, but get them angry or s-scared enough, and they lose control—forget they’re human . . . And they have . . . powers, too. So sometimes they hurt p-people. I knew one that almost d-destroyed the town where I used to live.”

“Whoa. What happened?”

{Yes, what did happen?} Detoby asked.

“I talked to her. _With_ her, I g-guess I should say. Reminded her she was human . . . But I think . . . I think she almost k-killed me before I could. Several times.”

A silence hung over them. Finally, Dipper asked, “But not all ghosts are like that, right?”

“Nah. Most are like Detoby,” Norman said, resuming their walk. “Completely harmless.”

{Hey!}

“Except for the bad fish jokes.”

{Like your geography jokes were any better.}

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of that ‘Haitian on me’ one first,” Norman countered.

“Hey, Detoby,” Dipper said. “What do you call a fish with no eyes?”

{Um . . . Aren’t there species of cave fish that—}

“Fsh.”

Norman snorted.

{I don’t get it.}

“And what does a fish say when it hits a wall? Dam. But what does the wall say?” Dipper asked once Norman had stopped laughing. “Dumb bass.”

The Medium laughed out loud. But the Jokergeist was stymied. {What?}

“It’s funny because he’s almost swearing,” Norman explained. “Because a dam that stops water sounds like the swear word.”

Detoby considered that. Then it clicked. {Oh! And ‘dumb bass’ is like ‘dumb a—}

“He just got it,” Norman transmitted to Dipper.

As they were nearing Candy’s house, the behatted boy asked, “Does a ghost, er, live there?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Well, Candy’s one of my sister’s BFFs, and her grandma passed away a few months ago, so . . .”

{What does ‘BFF’ stand for?}

“Best Friend Forever,” Norman answered the Jokergeist. “Grandmother Chiu deaths here.”

Puzzled, Dipper repeated, “Deaths?”

“S-sorta ‘to live’ for a ghost. You, um, wanna meet her, too? Because she’s waving to us.”

{Well, then I’d best ankle,} Detoby decided. {See you back at Casa Babcock, where I can at least understand the insults the lady of the house hurls at me.} And, with a honk of his horn, he drifted away.

Meanwhile, the Korean was calling excitedly, {Norman-oo! Norman-oo! You come say ‘ahn-yo’? You good boy! You—Aish . . . You busy with friend. You come back—}

“No, it’s okay,” Norman assured her. “This is my friend. He wants to meet you.”

Somewhat flustered after having been put on the spot for someone he couldn’t see or hear, Dipper asked, “W-where is she? What do I say?”

“Oh, um . . . S-sorry,” Norman apologized quickly. “I thought you’d—but if you don’t want—”

“No, I _do_. I’m just . . . Where do I even look?”

“Okay, l-look where I look,” Norman advised him nervously. “And just talk like normal. Y’know? Ahn-yoh-ha-seh-yo, Chiu Hal-muh-nee,” he said with a bow to Grandmother Chiu.

“Talk _normal_, he says,” Dipper murmured sarcastically. “Um . . . On-yo-hos-yo?”

{He . . . not as good with rangrage-oo,} she commented to Norman.

“Well, that was his first try ever,” Norman protested on Dipper’s behalf.

“That bad?”

“C-considering you only heard me say it _once_—and I’m _far_ from perfect anyway,” Norman said reassuringly and self-deprecatingly. “It’s ‘ahn-yoh-ha-seh-yo’.”

“On-yo-ha-suh-yo,” Dipper repeated.

“Chiu Hal-muh-nee.”

“Chiu Hal-mah-nee.”

“Great!”

{Good, maybe,} Grandmother Chiu conceded.

“What does that mean?” Dipper asked.

“It’s ‘Hello, Grandmother Chiu’. Very formal and . . . y’know. F-formal. Now you talk normal.”

“Would it be rude of me to say that it sounds a little like a sneeze?”

Norman looked scandalized, but the gamble worked; Grandmother Chiu laughed merrily. {Koreans have joke rike that-oo!}

“Um, she says that’s actually a j-joke among Koreans—that it sounds like a sneeze.”

“Tell her—or, um, Chiu Hal-mah-nee,” Dipper corrected himself addressing himself to the space where he hoped she was floating. “My name’s Dipper. You probably know my twin sister, Mabel?”

{Ah! This that boy; that Dipper-oo! You no ter him, but I think my granddaughter _rike_ _him_-oo,} she confided to Norman with the inappropriate twinkle of an old woman discussing young romance.

“O-okay . . .” Norman mumbled. This news made him feel unhappy. Why did he feel unhappy?

{Maber good gir; good friend to Candy. She, Grenda—both good friends-oo. But I no see Maber for _weeks_-oo! You ask him why,} she requested.

“She says she likes Mabel; she and, um, Grenda—is that it?—are both good friends to C-Candy. But, uh, she hasn’t seen Mabel for a few weeks,” Norman transmitted with some difficulty.

A shadow passed across Dipper’s face. “Y-yeah. She’s been . . . not well . . .”

“Anything s-serious?” Norman asked worriedly.

“Well, y’know how these things are,” Dipper responded vaguely. “But I think she’s doing better. She seemed excited for school again this morning . . .”

{Ah. It hard for him to tawk about because he is _boy_; Korean boy, American boy—_same_-oo,} Grandmother Chiu said sagaciously. {He worries for his sister, rike good boy-oo. But can’t tawk about.}

“I’m s-sure she’ll be alright,” Norman offered.

Dipper looked away. “That’s the plan . . . But, um, what’s the Korean word for ‘awkward’?”

Grandmother Chiu laughed at the entirely appropriate non-sequitur. {You boys go have fun-oo! Not need to waste the day feeling awkward because of ord bag rike me—}

“But you’re not an—”

{_Go_!} she laughed at Norman. {Go have _fun_ with friend-oo! That is _order_! You go _now_-oo!}

“A-alright, Chiu Hal-muh-nee.”

“What’s she saying?” Dipper asked.

“That we shouldn’t feel awkward because of her—”

“But we’re not—”

“That’s what I said!” Norman insisted. “Anyway, that we should g-go have . . . fun. Or whatever. Her words,” he added apologetically, in case the directness made everything even more awkward.

Dipper shrugged, as if to say “Grown-ups, right? Even dead ones.” What he did say was, “Okay.”

“Ahn-yoh-hi-gyes-yo,” Norman said with a bow.

“On-yo-I-guess-yo,” the behatted boy tried to repeat, even bowing self-consciously.

As they ran off, Grandmother Chiu shouted, {You herp with his pronunsation! Need work-oo!}

But another ghost of an elderly woman was waiting for them as they reached Norman’s house. Elaine, upon hearing Detoby’s report of a new friend with her grandson, was buzzing with excitement; she would have even flown out to meet them had Detoby not advised her otherwise. As it was, she had chosen the false-casualness of sitting in (floating above) the couch when they walked in. {Oh, Normy! You’re back! And who’s this with you?}

“Hey, Grandma. Dipper, Grandma. Grandma, Dipper. She’s on the couch,” he added in a hiss.

“Thanks. Hi, Missus . . . Babcock?” Dipper guessed.

{Hello, Dipper. Very nice to meet you. Welcome to our house. Would you like a drink? Milk? Juice? Propel?} she offered, almost in a rush. {I’m sure Perry won’t miss one or two Propels.}

“Er . . . She s-says welcome and asks if you’d like something to d-drink. Kinda aggressively?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

{So you seem to know about Norman’s gift already. Must come as _quite_ a surprise, I bet?}

“Actually, D-Dipper says he’s seen a lot of weirder stuff in town already than m-me. I’m not sure how I feel about n-not being the w-weirdest thing in town anymore,” Norman joked falteringly.

{Normy, why are you stuttering? Don’t be nervous, that makes you sound so _mopey_.}

“Grandma!”

{Elaine!} Detoby echoed in quiet remonstrance.

{Just be confident and he’ll be sure to think you’re ‘awesome sauce’ for sure,} she urged him.

Blushing, Norman protested, “Grandma, stop!”

“Um . . . Something familial?” Dipper asked sympathetically. “Yeah, just wait until you meet my Gruncle Stan . . . Oh _man_!” He grimaced. “I just realized you’re gonna _have_ _to_ _meet_ my Gruncle Stan . . .”

Elaine chuckled. {Good thing I’m not embarrassing.}

Norman gave her a look.

{What? I’m not embarrassing you, am I?}

“I plead the fifth,” her grandson answered tersely.

Before either of them could say anything else, Deotby interposed, {Elaine, my angel divine, perhaps we should leave the kids be for a while and continue our earlier conversation in the kitchen?}

{What conversation? We weren’t having a conversation.}

{Then perhaps we should start one. Off with you, Bugaboo!}

With the sincerity of one who knows their life has been saved, Norman said, “Thanks, Detoby. C’mon,” he added in an undertone to Dipper, bounding upstairs. “I’ll explain later.”

{What was that about?} Elaine huffed indignantly at the Jokergeist. {I was only trying to make a good first impression for the family! Heaven knows I’m not going to have _any_ help in _that_ department.}

{Oh, you know how kids are when they have their friends over . . .} Detoby said with uncharacteristic diplomacy. {Just leave him be. I think he’s excited to have a friend who isn’t eating dirt.}

Though discontent, Elaine settled back to her knitting. {And you said this Dipper boy just . . . walked up and introduced himself? Basically said he wanted to be friends? That’s just like Neil was . . .}

{I take it Neil is that best friend he lost?} Detoby asked softly.

{Yes. And he . . . Neil was probably the best thing that ever happened to Norman—a real friend. I’m praying this Dipper boy will be, too . . . That’s what Norman needs, and I just want to help that,} Elaine maintained adamantly.

{Well, we just got to let that happen. Let it take its course. Which might take some time. But . . . on the plus side,} Detoby began suavely. {It might give _us_ a little more _alone_ _time_. _Grrrrrow_!}

{If you come any closer, so help me, I will skewer you.}

Above them, Dipper asked, “So is it just your grandma here?”

“Yeah. Um, s-sorry about that. She was just a little . . . Well, y’know how m-moms are when friends come over, right? Even grand-moms. They just . . . g-go overboard all of a sudden.”

A second shadow passed across the behatted boy’s face. “Yeah . . . I know how that is . . .”

“S-something wrong?”

“Nothing. Where’s everybody else?”

“Dad’s at work, Courtney (my sister) is probably with friends, and Mom works at a florist’s during the afternoons. Anyway, _this_ is my room!” the Medium said with the nervousness of an artist unveiling a painting. He was running a hand through his vertical spikes of hair.

“Whoa. You . . . _really_ like horror movies, huh?” Dipper laughed.

“The genre is fascinating, because it deals with fear. And the paranormal. D-do you like them?”

“Sure, just _obviously_ not as much as you,” Dipper quipped. “Man. I love that zombie alarm.”

Timidly, Norman corrected him. “_Undead_. The Z-word is, um, k-kinda offensive.”

Dipper laughed. “Right! And I suppose you’ve asked some how they felt about it?”

“Well . . . y-yeah, I have . . .”

Dipper spun around. “You’ve _met_ a zombie? Sorry, an undead . . . person?”

“F-five of them, actually.”

“When? Man, _tell_ _me_ you’ve got some proof of that. I mean, I’ll believe you, but it’d be so _cool_ if you had something concrete you could show me right now!”

“S-sorry. I don’t have any p-pictures or anything.”

“Gar!” Dipper flopped onto Norman’s bed in exasperation. “You’re _killing_ _me_, Smalls!”

“I’m taller than you.”

“You’re killing me, _Freakishly_ _Talls_! Our conversation will continue because of your psychic ghost-whisperer thingy gift stuff—”

“I’m n-_not_ psychic,” Norman mumbled.

“—but I will be dead because you are killing me! Right here, right now!”

“My f-family was there,” Norman offered. “My sister especially. They c-can confirm it.”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Dipper assured him. “I don’t _need_ proof; I just _want_ some, ‘cause no one will believe me when I tell them about this. Never do, except for Mabel and Soos, and they hardly count . . .”

“Soos?”

“He works for my Gruncle Stan at the Mystery Shack. I guess he’s kinda like a . . . older cousin? He’s seen a few of the things I’ve investigated, and then some weird things on his own. But no one else ever seems to see them, though,” Dipper sighed. “Blind sheep never paying attention . . . How’d you meet these ‘undead persons’, anyway?”

For the next little while, Norman explained everything: about Blithe Hollow’s darker history, about Aggie’s wrath and the curse it placed on her accusers, about the role his Uncle Prendergast played and that Norman was supposed to play, about the remorseful undead, and about how Norman himself had confronted Aggie and helped her to forgive them—helped her to be human and herself once again. Dipper hung on every word.

“. . . So, I guess the p-point is that we’re all, er, just people. Death doesn’t change that.”

“Wow. Deep . . .” Dipper said in awe.

“N-not really. That’s basic humanity, isn’t it? But s-sometimes maybe we need to be reminded about the basics?” Norman offered. The way the other boy was looking at him—that rapt attention—made his stomach do flips. And his hand reach for his hair again and again.

“So you just . . . You pretty much threw the script away!” Dipper summed it all up. “And thanks to that, you put right a problem no one could solve in like _three_ _centuries_! That is _so_ _cool_!”

“I j-just went and talked to people—”

“Exactly! It’s obvious, but who would have ever thought of it? And besides that, who could have even done it besides someone with your abilities? Lateral thinking, courage, and psychic powers!”

Norman blushed at the compliments, even though he mumbled, “B-but I’m _not_ psychic.”

“Man, I don’t get why everyone treats you like a freak. Your ability-gift-thingy is . . . it’s just _cool_. And _useful_ like nothing I can imagine!” Dipper asserted. “I’d maim a clown to be able to see ghosts!”

“You . . . you really think so?” Norman asked, almost giddy.

“Well, I’d maim a clown just because . . . but still. _Heck_ _yeah_! Norman Babcock. I. Want. You.”

The boy Medium started back, his face flushed. “W-_wha_?!”

“On. My. Team. Together, we can be the _best_ paranormal investigators. IN THE WORLD!”

“T-_together_?” Norman repeated, feeling more happiness than he could explain.

“How many times I gotta say ‘heck yeah’?! You wanna be partners with me? And my sister, once she recovers fully,” Dipper added.

“I, um . . . I . . . I d-dunno, this is just so much—”

“So? C’mon, you wanna be alone and miserable? Like Aggie was? What is _that_ gonna solve? Let’s be friends,” Dipper said straightly. “Then let’s go kick paranormal trash. By which I mean . . . y’know, cautiously study it with respect and whatnot. Trash kicking is only occasionally necessary.”

Norman’s heart shouted yes, but his head said that there had to be a catch he wasn’t seeing; people weren’t this nice to him. Ever. So he took the middle ground. “Y-you . . . haven’t even t-told me what sorta things you investigate . . .”

“All sorts of paranormal stuff. It’s like it’s centered around this town for some reason—that’s the _big_ mystery of Gravity Falls I wanna solve,” Dipper said with determination. “But in the meantime, we take it on a case by case basis. Sometimes stuff just falls in my lap, sometimes I gotta follow clues, and sometimes I have to go out and find it.”

“Like what?”

“Man . . . Where to even begin? I _always_ feel like I’m being _watched_ in the woods, and I’m still trying to figure out why (but maybe it’s the ghosts). My first week here, my mosquito bites spelled out ‘BEWARE’ on my arm—”

“_For_ _real_?” Norman interjected incredulously.

“Well, okay, _technically_ it was ‘BEWARB’, but it was made by freakin’ _mosquitos_!”

“M-_my_ first week here, they spelled out ‘BEWARF’—”

“_For_ _real_?” Dipper asked excitedly. “And I’m guessing no one took it seriously for you, either? Even though it was just one dot away?”

“Yeah! They said it was just a weird coincidence!”

“See? This is why I want you on my team!”

Norman blushed again.

“No one else seems to notice the obvious! And there is so much more!”

For the next little while, Dipper explained as much as he could: about the race of Gnomes that wanted to group marry his sister, about the race of uber-macho and meatheaded Manotaurs that considered the Multibear their mortal enemy, about the Merman that had briefly inhabited the municipal pool and kinda-sorta been dating his sister, about the kid-eating monster made entirely out of “loser candy”, about the monster that was Gideon Gleeful and how he was obsessed with both Mabel and procuring the Mystery Shack by any means necessary (including a shrink/grow ray).

Norman didn’t so much hang on every word as hang from them. At the mention of a shrink ray, he couldn’t hang on any longer. “A _shrink_ _ray_? He made a . . . Are you making fun of me?”

“Well, actually _I_ made the shrink-_grow_ ray,” Dipper corrected him. “Out of a crystal I found and a flashlight.”

“And how’d you even know about this crystal?”

“I . . . found it. In the woods,” Dipper said with technical honestly, instinctively laying a protective hand over the inner-pocket that held 3. That wasn’t something you just came right out and told people about before you really knew them.

“Uh huh . . . L-look, it’s not that I don’t b-believe you, but . . . That makes no sense.”

“Unlike ghosts and zom—undead persons?” Dipper asked cleverly.

“Well, _yeah_. Gnomes and Minotaurs?”

“Manotaurs.”

“S-sorry, but I’m, um, p-pretty sure the word is ‘Minotaur’.”

“Not for these guys, it ain’t. A Minotaur is half-bull and half-_Minnie_-_Mouse_ compared to them. But fair enough, fair enough,” the behatted boy declared judiciously. “You need some proof that I’m not making all this crap up, because it is a little farfetched . . .”

“C-_can_ you prove it?” Norman challenged him timidly.

“Sure. It’s just a matter of deciding what’s feasible and yet safest. Hmm . . .” Dipper considered. “The Gnomes swore revenge, so they’re out . . . I don’t like the Manotaurs, frankly; we’re not gonna go looking for their Mancave . . . Ma and Pa ghost-poltergeist are out of the question, now and forever . . . The Gobblewonker is probably scrap by now . . .”

“The whatllwonker?”

Biting his lip, Dipper continued, “Gideon is . . . just best avoided. Y’know, as a general rule . . . Mermando is gone and Soos ate the Trickster . . . I’m not sure I could find the crystals again (we had to break the one I took) . . . Dang,” he conceded. “This is harder than I thought . . .”

“L-look, man, it’s not like you have to c-come through for me, or anything.”

Dipper went rigid. Then he smacked his forehead. “Of course! He’s _perfect_! And I’ve been meaning to go see him for a while anyway . . . But it’s too late today,” he realized.

“What is?”

“School gets out early on Fridays, though.” Rounding on Norman, Dipper asked, “What’re you doing tomorrow after school? Feel like going for a hike?”

The Medium blinked. “Y-you’re serious?”

“You want some proof, right?”

****

Flopped in his recliner, Stan sighed at daytime TV. “Not a single pigeon all day . . .” he lamented. And then, glory of glories, he heard the chime above the door ring! In a flash, he bounded from his chair and ran to the gift shop. “WELCOME TO THE MYSTE—Wendy? What are you doing here?” he exiged. “You only work weekends during the school year.”

“Good to see you, too, boss-man,” she replied breezily.

“I’m not paying you for your time here today,” Stan told her gruffly. “You’re off the clock, because Soos and me got everything covered here.”

Soos, meanwhile, was in the corner and (having just been startled awake from a nap by Stan’s yelling) trying to remember where and who he was. At the moment, he was fairly certain he was an owl.

“Excuse me, but it’s actually ‘Soos and I’, Mister Pines,” a pretty, pink bulldozer corrected him. “You don’t wanna sound ignorant, do you?”

Stan lowered his gaze about thirty degrees. Grenda and Candy were standing behind Wendy.

With a nod to them, Wendy explained, “I’m just here to check on Mabel. She kinda made quite the ruckus during lunch today, and the girls here are worried. Hasn’t answered her phone or anything.”

“Just once,” Candy reported sadly. “And she told me to just leave her alone. She sounded . . . not good again . . .”

“Yeah . . . Threw me for a loop, too, what with how excited she seemed just this morning . . .” Stan sighed.

“Don’t worry. Wait here,” Wendy assured them all as she disappeared upstairs. Once outside the attic room, she announced herself “Knock-knock!” and walked in.

Mabel lay on her bed with her back to the door and Waddles in her arms. She looked over once, then turned away.

“You’re supposed to say ‘Who’s there?’, Hambone,” Wendy told her, bouncing beside of her. “And then I say ‘Wendy’, you say ‘Wendy who?’, and I say ‘Wendy Corduroy—who you freaking think? How many Wendys do you know?’. And maybe you surprise me by listing four others, or something.”

Mabel buried her face deeper into her pillow.

“So good job seizing power today, Hambone. Or should I say ‘Your Grand Gothness’?”

“Don’t make fun of me!” the younger girl said quietly.

“I’m not. I mean it. About time Kennedy Jenkins got some comeuppance of the uppercut variety; we ought to have been calling her/him ‘Your Jerk Jerkness’ for that ‘Ebony Ravenpath’ crap of hers/his,” Wendy asserted.

“Comeuppercutance . . .” Mabel said halfheartedly.

“Exactly. That should be like a word for comeuppance of a more punchy kind. Anyway . . . I hear you ran off after becoming the goth queen. I hear . . . you were crying, too . . .” the older girl said gently. “You wanna maybe talk about it?”

“They . . . started talking about my p-parents . . .” Swallowing thickly, Mabel clung to Waddles. “And I . . . I just g-got so angry and sad and . . . And what am I even doing making these stupid clothes?!” she burst out, gesturing at her bezazzled finery. “Th-that’s all I could think! Mom and Dad are . . . are . . . and here I am worrying about fashion like n-nothing happened!”

“It’s not wrong to try and feel better.”

Wendy laid a hand comfortingly on Mabel’s shoulder, and Mabel rolled over to bury her face against Wendy’s shoulder. Most of Mabel’s face was left plastered to her pillow. “B-but . . . How _can_ I? _Ever_? And . . . And it d-didn’t even w-work! It didn’t! I _ache_ inside . . . and . . . I f-feel like I’m _never_ gonna s-stop aching . . . Ever . . .”

Wendy held her though the sobs. “Sorry, Hambone. I don’t know what to tell you . . . I’ve never lost anyone important to me. Don’t really know how you feel . . .”

Wiping her nose, Mabel sniffed, “N-no one does . . . And that m-makes it worse, ‘cause I feel . . . even lonelier, on top of everything else . . .”

“No one? C’mon. What about Dipping Sauce?”

“Ha!” Mabel croaked. “H-him? He d-doesn’t care! If he _did_, he’d be here now . . . Y’know, he . . . he hasn’t c-cried _once_? _Not_ _once_ since . . . not even once . . .”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”

“Don’t talk to me about him!” she burst out angrily. “J-just . . . don’t! He’s off . . . investigating stupid stuff like n-nothing happened! Like it d-doesn’t even matter that . . . that . . .”

“Maybe he’s—”

“_Shut_ _up_! J-just . . . shut up . . . _Please_ . . .” Mabel begged, her face pressed so hard against Wendy’s shoulder that it hurt them both.

“Okay,” Wendy agreed, holding her again despite the discomfort. After a while, she said softly, “Grenda and Candy are downstairs, y’know, and worried about you. I’m gonna bring them up, okay?”

“N-no . . . No,” Mabel asserted more forcefully. “I just w-want . . . to be left alone . . .”

“But I thought you’re lonely.”

“Y-yeah, but . . . You ever feel so l-lonely that it hurts to be around p-people?” Mabel hiccupped.

In all honesty, Wendy answered, “Not really, no.”

“I’m complicated, I guess . . .”

“Alright, then. I’ll tell them,” Wendy agreed reluctantly. “But . . . don’t cut them out, okay? They’re your friends; they want to help. We all do. And don’t give up on the goth look if you like it,” Wendy insisted. “The Mabel I know doesn’t let people like Kennedy Jenkins tell her what to do.”

“They c-can’t tell their queen what to do, can they?” the younger girl said with a watery smile.

“Right. Or heads will roll!”

As Wendy rose, Mabel gasped. A second copy of her face was plastered to Wendy’s shoulder. “S-sorry about that . . .”

“What, that? Meh. It’ll wash off. No worries, Hambone.” At the door, she paused, looked back, and said, “Hey . . . Don’t feel guilty about . . . about _living_. I don’t think your—_they_ would want that.”

Mabel just looked away, so Wendy shut the door quietly behind her.

At the base of the stairs, Grenda, Candy, Stan, and Soos, were all waiting. She shook her head. “Mabel . . . She just needs some alone time, alright?”

Stan sighed. “How much more time does she need? This . . . Is this normal? What do I even do?”

“Just be there for when she’s ready, I guess. . .”

“Everyone grieves differently, Mister Pines,” Soos declared. “Just as everyone lives differently.”

“But . . . _Mabel_ . . .” Candy whimpered. She looked hopelessly at her friend.

Folding her arms, the square-jawed Grenda somehow seemed even more unshakably resolute than usual. “Alright. If Mabel wants us to leave her alone, then we’ll leave her alone. _For_ _this_ _evening_. But we’re coming back tomorrow morning before school to help her get ready. _And I will_ _wreck_ _anyone_ who messes with her at school.”

“Me too! I will use the flying twin-foot ninja kicks she taught me!” Candy affirmed.

“Come, Candy! We must prepare! To my house! Run like the wind!”

And both girls dashed off.

“She’s got some good friends,” Soos nodded approvingly.

“Speaking of friends . . .” Wendy observed as hers drove into the lot. “THOMPSON! We still good to rehearse tomorrow, Soos?”

“_Rehearse_?” Stan repeated suspiciously. “Rehearse _what_?”

“N-nothing accordion-related, Mister Pines,” Soos stammered.

“What we do in our spare time is none of your business, boss-man,” Wendy informed him, exiting with the flair of the aloof.

Stan shook his head. “You’re _nuts_. All of you. _Nuts_. Without exception. And you seem to attract more nuts. I swear, I’m the only sane person around here. Why am I still wearing pants?”

****

“S-so, you’re really not gonna tell me where we’re going tomorrow?” Norman pressed timidly.

Dipper grinned at him. His grin could have been described as “Cheshire Cat”, mischievous, or possibly evil—a fact which Norman would ordinarily have noticed if he had not been so preoccupied with the weak knees it inexplicably gave him. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you,” Dipper said. “Trust me; it’s gonna be great.”

Beside the Medium, the Jokergeist quipped, {This bird likes his caginess.}

“You’re not kidding,” Norman agreed. “At least, I think you’re not.” And he licked his ice cream.

“What’d he say?”

“He called you a c-cagey bird.”

“Oh.” Dipper took a lick of his ice cream. “What does that mean?”

“I’m . . . guessing it means you’re s-secretive?”

{Prize to you, Bugaboo.}

“Occupational hazard of the Mystery Shack,” Dipper said philosophically.

When Dipper had said he needed to buy a CD and some batteries to be ready for their hike, Norman had been perplexed; however, he’d readily volunteered to accompany Dipper in buying them. As they had made to leave, Elaine informed them “incidentally” (and with almost bellicose cheeriness) that there was “exactly $4.79 in the living room furniture—enough for you boys to buy some ice cream, maybe?” Though Norman had protested that Doctor Pincus would never allow it, Detoby volunteered (with suspiciously practiced-sounding lines and lackluster enthusiasm) to run interference for them.

It had worked, thanks to which Norman now had another peanut butter and chocolate twist, Dipper had a strawberry swirled cookies and cream (“Shut up! It’s delicious!”), and the Jokergeist had briefly wished to take his own afterlife.

“How’d you distract him?” Norman had asked as they walked away.

{I said I had a theological question I wanted to ask him in private, since he is the closest thing us spooky mooks have to a priest,} Detoby had answered, looking utterly drained. {Did you know he was an ordained minister in life, by the way? Yet another reason to torment him in death . . .}

“And the question?”

{I’ve been wanting a drink since my toes decided to look at the sky. I _can’t_, being more of a spirit than even the hardest of liquors, but I want one. I’d have one if I _could_, but I _can’t_. So am I still sinning? Then he quoted *shudder* The Bible at me . . . The _whole_ _time_ you were getting ice cream! _The_ _whole_ _time_! Bible verses and pontification! How long did it take you, anyway?}

Norman had shrugged. “Maybe . . . seven minutes, tops?” Dipper had concurred with that guess.

{It felt like an eternity! No, _seven_ eternities! _Satan_ _himself_ couldn’t have racked me better! Hell—sorry. Heck must be operated by ministers! All demons must have ordinations somewhere!}

“It couldn’t have been _that_ bad,” Dipper had said once Norman transmitted it all.

{_Not_ _that_ _bad_?! His conclusion was that I’ve been sinning for eight decades straight! How, I ask, do I sin _by_ _not_ _drinking_ _for_ _eight_ _decades_?!}

“Thanks for doing that. Even if Grandma made you.”

{Oh no! Thanks isn’t enough to cover this. You. Owe. Me. _Three_ times.}

“Three? How do you figure three?” Norman had asked.

And, counting on his fingers, Detoby had listed, {_One_ for distracting Elaine plus _two_ for Bertie. Yes, that counts for _two_. _At_ _least_. So you owe me _three_.}

Now the three of them meandered through town (uptown, downtown, and midtown just by crossing a street), perusing various shops that sold CDs. Dipper wouldn’t say what they were looking for, only that, “We’re looking for the latest album. He probably hasn’t heard it yet.”

“And he is?”

“The M—” Dipper caught himself. “The guy we’re going to see. HEY LOOK! A DISTRACTION!”

{What? Where?}

And Dipper scurried off with the CD before either could get a look at the title or artist. Fortunately for them (and unfortunately for Dipper), the cashier cocked an eyebrow as it was scanned. “BABBA’s ‘Take a Gamble’?”

Norman snorted. “_BABBA_?”

“Quiet, you.” And, rounding on the cashier, Dipper declared, “For your indiscreet service and for judging me, you shall receive _no_ _tip_!”

The cashier grumbled, “Not like anyone ever tips us anyway.”

“Because of your indiscretion and judging!” Dipper huffed, striding out the door.

By now, it was evening. The air was taking on the cool crispness of early-autumn, and the sky was ablaze with the kind of vivid colors one only sees in a sunset over high mountains. Norman felt indescribably content as he shuffled along between Dipper and Detoby. “So . . . you like BABBA?”

“Shut up. They’re catchy. Besides, it’s not for me.”

“Because you already have it downloaded?”

“Shut up. Maybe . . .”

{Who is this Babba? She bolshie? The name sounds bolshie.}

“Detoby, that sounds a bit like those _other_ _words_,” Norman remonstrated him warningly.

{What? It’s not like _Russians_ are actual people!} Detoby protested.

“What words?” Dipper asked.

“Detoby is . . . from a d-different era. S-_sorry_,” Norman apologized automatically. “He’s asking if BABBA is Russian, only he’s using a word that’s p-probably a slur against Russians . . . S-sorry.”

Dipper shrugged. “Well, it’s not like Russians are actual people—”

“D-_Dipper_!”

{See? He gets it!}

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” Dipper laughed. “I fully recognize that sub-humans are people, too. No, I’m kidding! Because I _don’t_ recognize sub-humans as people. Kidding! Kidding! Man, you’re easy!” he laughed at Norman’s thrice-scandalized expression. “Chill, already.”

Blushing all over, Norman stammered, “I’m just t-trying to help Detoby not be r-racist!”

{So the reds have infiltrated us this far already . . . Our children listen to their music and treat them like human beings . . .}

“BABBA is _Icelandic_,” Norman stated irritably. “And it’s a group. And it’s girly.”

Dipper took the bait. “It is _not_ girly!”

“Now who’s easy?” Norman riposted.

“Yeah, well . . . shut up. They’re music rocks.”

“In p-point of fact, they’re music pops.”

Dipper snorted.

{What? I don’t get it.}

“Um. D-do you wanna maybe . . . c-come over for dinner, or something?” Norman offered shyly, his hand practically running ladders through his hair. “We’re p-probably having something with eggplant in it, so it’s okay if not,” he added quickly. “Mom’s got us all on Dad’s d-diet. But, y’know . . .”

“As _tempting_ as eggplant is,” Dipper began sardonically, “I probably need to head home now. Haven’t been back since this morning, and . . . and I’d like to check on my sister,” he added soberly.

“Y-yeah. Of course. I understand,” the Medium said at once, trying to hide his disappointment.

“But I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” Dipper said matter-of-factly. “Plus after school, right?”

“Y-yeah! Okay!” And Norman’s heart leapt at the thought.

****

“But . . . She was great _this_ _morning_!” Dipper burst out disbelievingly. “What happened?”

Stan took a swig from his Diet Pitt. “You don’t know? Apparently the goths tried to shame her, but some of them decided to make her their queen instead.”

Utterly dumbfounded, Dipper sputtered incoherently for a full minute. Eventually, he managed to say, “_What_?”

“Mabel is now the great goth . . . or something like that. I think. But maybe it’s not official until a whatchamacallit . . . coronation.”

“Why does _everything_ in this town want to make her their queen?” Dipper wondered aloud.

“Got me, Dipping Sauce. Personally, I’d think that’d make her _happy_, but . . .” Stan shrugged. “Someone brought up your parents. Then everything came crashing down . . .”

Dipper deflated. “Oh . . .” It all made sense, then. “_Dang_ . . .”

“Why don’t _you_ know about this? Apparently there was a huge battle in the lunchroom.”

“I wasn’t in the lunchroom. I was with a friend.”

Spit take. “_You_?”

“Yes.”

Second spit take. Which was odd, because Stan hadn’t taken a second swig. “You have _friends_?”

“Yes, I have friends,” Dipper replied indignantly. “I have lots of friends.”

“In Canada, right? I just don’t know them?”

“I have _a_ Canadian friend, yes, who you probably don’t know. Why is that such a big deal?”

“Okay! Okay! I’m done teasing you. Well . . . _No_, I’m _not_, but I’ve currently run out of material,” Stan admitted. “You have fun, at least?”

Dipper smiled to himself. “Yeah, I did.”

“Well, that’s good. Somebody is, at least. This the person you been stalking?”

“I haven’t been _stalking_ anyone! How many times I gotta say it?! I’m gonna go see Mabel now.”

“Er. I’m not sure I’d recommend that,” Stan warned him. “She kinda wants to be left alone. And I think she’s still mad at you.”

Hurt, Dipper asked, “Why? What did I do?”

Stan shrugged again. “I’m not sure you _did_ anything. Does that really matter right now?”

Disregarding the warning, Dipper mounted the staircase and entered their shared bedroom. “Hey, Sis,” he called quietly. “How you feeling?”

Mabel and Waddles were curled up in the corner. With a scrapbook.

“Oh no . . .” Dipper murmured.

His sister looked up at him, her face a streaked and blotchy mess of black and white—like a surrealist zebra. Then she went silently to his side of the room. She picked up the first book from off his stack of novels, turned, and hurled it at his head.

Dipper ducked just in time. “_Whoa_! Mabel! What’re you—wah!” he jumped aside as another flew at him.

“Get out!” Mabel shouted.

“Mabel! Stop! Why’re you even throwing things—_my_ _things_—at me?!”

“Cause I don’t!” Thrown book. “Wanna wreck!” Thrown book. “My things! Duh! Now get out!” Thrown book.

Diving for refuge behind the shelves, he yelled, “But _why_ are you throwing things _at_ _all_?!”

“Oh no! I’m letting you trick me into talking to you again! I _shan’t_! From now on, I’m letting projectiles do the talking! And what they’re saying is ‘GET OUT OF MABEL’S ROOM’!”

“But you _haven’t_ talked to me! You haven’t said one real word _all_ _week_! Not one!”

Seizing another book, Mabel retorted, “Here’s a bookful of words, Dipstick!” And she threw it.

“Why are you even mad at me?! I honestly don’t know!”

“If you don’t know already, I _shan’t_ tell you!”

“Gah! That’s so freakin’ cliché!” Dipper snapped. “I thought you were _better_ than that!

“You’re the investigator with all the _important_ _things_ to investigate!” she snapped back at him. “Figure it out! _But_ _somewhere_ _else_!” And she hurled the last of the books. “I _shan’t_ tell you!

“Stop using that word! It sounds filthy!”

“_Shan’t_! _Shan’t_! _Shan’t_!”

“Jeez! Fine!” he relented. “I’m going! Just stop throwing things, you freakin’ psycho . . .” And he ran from the attic, slamming the door behind him, before she could find something more fragile to hurl.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Stan offered him a Diet Pitt. “Didn’t sound so good.”

“Guess I’m sleeping on the couch,” Dipper replied angrily. “Psycho shrew-butt chased me out of my own room . . . After all I’ve done for her . . .” he added in a betrayed mutter.

“I’m not saying she’s _right_,” Stan offered as a preamble. “I’m saying try to be patient with her. She’s taking . . . _all_ _this_ real hard . . .”

Dipper said nothing. He just drank his soda.

****

Dinner at the Babcock household (true to Norman’s guess) did involve eggplant. Sandra had set the casserole dish of oven-baked vegetables on the table with a proud grin and the words, “Ratatouille!* Like that cute movie about the cooking rat that horrifies health inspectors everywhere!”

{Who would willingly eat eggplant?} Detoby had asked rhetorically. {I mean, besides ghosts?}

{Oh, knock that off. It’s delicious when cooked right—like everything,} Elaine had insisted. {Normy, eat your vegetables. They’re good and good for you, and they’ll make you grow tall.}

“I already am tall. Heh. Taller than Dipper anyway.”

“What’s that, Normy?” Sandra asked.

“Just talking to Grandma,” he answered quickly. “She said I needed to eat my vegetables.”

{What else can he eat?} Detoby reasoned. {It’s _all_ vegetables.}

Sandra nodded. “You do, if you want to be big and tall when you grow up.” And then, as if anticipating some grumbling, she gave Perry a look. She said nothing, but the look clearly expressed, “You need to eat them so as not be quite so big now that you are grown up.”

“That’s what Grandma said,” Norman replied. “And I said I’m already taller than Dipper.”

“Who’s Dipper?” Courtney asked.

Fifteen minutes later, Perry broke in, “This Dipper . . . is an actual kid, then? Not another ghost?”

“Yeah, Dad. I already said that,” Norman answered impatiently. “We’re thinking about going for a hike tomorrow. If that’s okay. Just in the woods,” he added quickly. “Can I, please?”

Perry cleared his throat, “Is—”

“Of course you can go with your friend,” Sandra answered happily. “Just take your phone.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

And in the other room, Detoby and Elaine floated above the couch. {I don’t think I’ve ever heard the NorMedium string together this many words at a time. He’s talked all through dinner, and about nothing but his new friend . . .}

{I haven’t seen him this excited since . . . Well, let’s just say it’s been months,} Elaine declared. {Sounds like they had fun, though.}

{Yep.}

Elaine hesitated, then asked, {What’s your opinion of Dipper?}

{Good kid,} Detoby said at once. {He’s got some tall tales and some short stories—likes knitting more than you do, to judge by all the yarns he’s ready to spin—but some kids are like that. Imaginative. Might be a good writer one day. Two of them sure hit it off, is all I can say.}

{Everyone needs a good friend. Especially Normy,} Elaine said gratefully.

{Dipper seems to be that. What breaks my heart is . . . the NorMedium is so confused by it . . . Almost like he’s never had anyone treat him kindly. Like he’s never had a friend before . . .}

{Confused?} Elaine repeated, for she was confused herself. Neil, possibly the nicest kid on earth, had been Norman’s best friend; the two had practically been inseparable.

Detoby nodded. {Tripping over his words left and right, ruffled as a macaw feather duster and twice as red, grinning ear-to-ear one minute and apologizing the next. Like he doesn’t know which way is up, and is afraid of making a fool of himself. All because someone’s not being cruel to him.}

{Almost like . . .} Elaine stopped. She took a long look at her grandson in the other room.

He looked happy. Animated. Elated. Giddy. Even—

But it couldn’t be . . . Could it?

{Well, why not? It would almost make sense . . .}

{Sorry?} the Jokergeist asked.

{Nothing. I’m just happy for him . . . Why don’t you two go watch your movie for the night?}


	6. Chapter 6

Morning. It was morning.

It had to be, because Norman was walking to school. He even had his backpack.

So it was morning. Yes.

And there were all the other students, too. In regular clothes. Standing in the hall of the school. Just like was normal. Though their clothes were the same color as their skin, which was a little strange. And none of them were looking in Norman’s direction, so he couldn’t see if they had faces or not.

But that didn’t matter, because Norman was going somewhere important. He wasn’t sure where or why exactly, but that didn’t matter either. He would get there eventually. Yes.

So Norman walked past the students. Ignored them, like always. Until the hall was empty.

But the hall led to the underside of the bleachers. It was shady and cool under them, but sunny and warm just beyond them. Someone was standing there. Silhouette in the sunshine.

“Hey, man. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Oh, yes. This was where he was going, and why.

It was the other boy. The blue and white pine hat. Chocolate hair and chocolate eyes. Dipper, glowing in the sunlight.

Nervous from the shade. “You have?”

“And you’ve been waiting for me.” A statement. Irrefutable. True.

“I don’t understand.”

The other boy reached into the shade and pulled Norman forward facefirst. Into the sunlight. Into him. Lips against Norman’s—and light-headed heart-racing knee-jelly stomach-plunging shock.

Norman jolted upright in bed, feeling as though he had been literally shocked back awake. “What the _heck_?!” he mumbled, still numb from sleep and . . . whatever _all_ _that_ had just been . . .

Still unable to process what _all that_ had even been, he just sat there while his head swam and tried to take stock of himself. His limbs were all tingly, and his stomach felt like it had dropped down three floors without the rest of him.

“Must’ve been _some_ kiss—”

Norman froze. Then a little strangled noise escaped his throat. “N-n-n-_no_! It c-_couldn’t_ . . . _Ohmygoshohmygosh_! That’s c-_crazy_! It c-_can’t_ be!” he panicked, reflexively looking all around in shame. No one could see this! No one could know! “There’s _no_ _way_ I just d-dreamed about . . . about . . . And it d-doesn’t mean _anything_, even _if_ I did! It was j-just a _dream_, that’s all! Dreams don’t mean—”

Norman froze again. While looking around in all directions, he had also looked down . . .

Suddenly, there was no point in denying anything. He liked Dipper. He _definitely_ liked Dipper; the evidence was irrefutable. So irrefutable. Why bother denying it to himself?

Besides . . . he had already known that he . . . liked Dipper.

With a sigh, he slumped back onto his bed. “I just dreamed about kissing a boy . . .” he admitted dazedly to the ceiling. “I have a . . . a crush on another boy . . . Which means I’m . . . I’m . . .”

But Norman couldn’t finish the sentence—not _that _sentence. It was unthinkable.

Instead, he scrunched his eyes shut and whimpered, “It means I’m _sooo_ boned . . .”

****

**LONELINESS**

Mabel turned around. There was that familiarly unfamiliar door with the plaque that read “#13”. She rose off the hard, cold concrete and tried to wipe away her tears so she could get a better look at it. But there were so many tears, and they had soaked into her white and black goth makeup. It was like trying to wipe away clay. Hard, cold clay.

**NEVER AGAIN**

Was the voice . . . promising that she would never know loneliness again? What did it mean?

**OPEN**

The door was just standing in the air—no walls extending beyond its frame. Why didn’t whoever the voice belonged to just step around it? Why didn’t they just open the door?

“Who are you?”

**LONELINESS**

“Who are you?” Mabel repeated. “What do you want?”

**OPEN**

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

**OPEN**

“Why?”

**LONELINESS**

“Why don’t you say what you want?! Why don’t you talk like a normal person?!” she yelled.

The world was silent. A cold silent, as though warmth had left it forever.

Mabel turned to leave.

It can’t.

Mabel stopped and turned back around. “You can’t? You . . . need someone else to do it?”

**OPEN**

The knob had a dull shine.

What could be the harm of turning it, after all?

If it was just a door . . .

She took a step closer—

“RISE AND SHINE!”

“BWAH!” Mabel literally bolted out of bed, her hand scrabbling for some weapon to fend off this assault of noise, light, and smells!

“Good morning, Mabel! We made breakfast!”

“W-wha?! Candy?! Grenda?!”

“CINNAMON MUFFINS!”

“This morning, we are Your Dark Grace’s handmaidens,” Candy declared with a playful curtsy. “We will help you get ready for the best goth day ever.”

“And I will _wreck_ anyone who tries to ruin it for you!” Grenda roared. “They will feel _pain_!”

Mabel blinked uncomprehendingly. “What?” she mumbled.

“No time for talk now!” Grenda said. “Candy! We must remove what remains from yesterday! Swab like the wind! I’ll prepare her shower!”

A minute later, Mabel was propelled gently but forcefully into the bathroom.

“It is not enough to _be_ clean,” Candy advised. “Make yourself _feel_ clean. That is the first step towards complete beauty.”

Mabel tried to protest. “But I—”

“No time for talk now! Scrub like the wind!” Grenda shouted.

Below them, Stan emerged squintingly from his bedroom. “What’s all the noise about?”

Dipper, still on the couch, was finishing a muffin. “The girls. They came back, like they said. They’re getting Mabel ready. Actually, I better go grab my stuff while she’s distracted, or she might shoot me with her grappling hook . . .”

“Where’d those muffins come from?”

“The girls. They made us some, too.”

“Oh. Well, then, I guess I can forgive the noise . . . These look really good.”

“Cinnamon.”

“Ah, cinnamon—king of spices,” Stan said as he took a bite of one.

****

Descending into the morning bustle that was the kitchen, Norman seemed more preoccupied and morose than usual. It was almost as if he were waiting for something unpleasant but also inexorable to happen—some axe to drop (and perhaps not a metaphorical axe).

“Morning, Normy,” his mother larked.

He flinched at being addressed. He squeaked, “H-hey!” He sat shakily at the table.

{Normy? Are you alright?} Elaine asked her grandson just as Sandra asked, “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. S-slept fine. Why?” he challenged them all nervously. “Because everything’s normal here. Nothing’s at all un-normal. N-nope!”

Perry raised an eyebrow at his son, and Norman blanched. Perry sighed and went back to his bowl of bran mixed with low-fat yogurt. That also made him sigh.

Elaine and Detoby exchanged a glance. {What’s eating you, Bugaboo?} the latter asked.

“N-nothing. Nothing’s eating me,” the Medium replied quickly. “Hey, look! Cereal! So I guess, er, I’m eating something. Funny, right? Hahaha!” And he dove into his cereal with a glompf.

His mother and father exchanged glances; when they looked to Courtney, she merely shrugged. Norman was acting a little strange. Big deal. Not in the least bit out of the ordinary. Cut him some slack.

Inhaling the last spoonful, the boy Medium shoved himself away from the table. “G-gotta run! Thanks for breakfast, Mom!”

“But it’s only—”

“Okayloveyoubye!” he shouted as he lurched from the kitchen.

“But you don’t—”

“_Okayloveyoubye_!” he shouted louder as he ran out the door.

Everyone just stared at one another for a moment. Courtney admitted, “Okay . . . even for him, that’s a little—”

The front door was opened. “Forgot my backpack!” The front door was shut.

{Maybe we should . . .}

{Yeah.} Detoby agreed, taking off at a clip. {Hold your horses, Pony Express!}

{Normy, are you sure you’re alright?} Elaine called after him.

“I said I slept normal,” he asserted evasively. “Why does everyone keep bugging me about it?”

{Because you’ve got bigger rings around your eyes than a raccoon.}

{Plus,} Detoby added, {you’re acting squirrellier than a rodent convention.}

“Y-yeah, I w-woke up in the middle of the night and . . . and c-couldn’t fall back to sleep again,” the boy Medium finished in a mumble.

{Twitchier than nine cups of coffee,} Detoby continued.

“L-like _normal_. No weird dreams or anything. N-_nope_! Nothing worth badgering me about at all, so stop with the badgering.”

{Normy—}

“Your lips keep moving, but all I hear is ‘badger, badger, badger’.”

{Nuttier than a macadamia plantation.}

Placing her transparent hands on her transparent hips, Elaine zipped in front of her grandson. {Norman Babcock, do _not_ take that tone with me.}

{Battier than—}

{Stop that!} Elaine snapped at the Jokergeist.

{Yes, ma’am.}

Turning back to her grandson, Elaine exiged, {You tell me the truth, young man. What’s wrong? Something at home?}

“No!” Norman insisted.

{Something at school?}

Norman looked away. “N-no . . .”

{What’s wrong at school?} Elaine followed up incisively.

“N-nothing is wrong at school, Grandma. Nothing.” And, to Norman’s own surprise, he realized that he meant what he said. His heart (for the first time in his life) actually lightened at the thought of it, because school was where he would see . . .

And as intellectually scary as it was to realize that, his heart refused to sink.

“Really. Nothing’s wrong at school.” And the boy Medium actually started laughing happily.

{What’s so funny?} Elaine asked worriedly.

“S-squirrels at a rodent convention! Ha!”

Detoby honked his horn in satisfaction. {I thought that wasn’t half bad myself.}

{Don’t you start again,} Elaine warned him.

{Oh, let the NorMedium be,} Detoby returned. {He says he’s fine.}

Elaine fixed a steely eye on the Jokergeist. She countered, {He’s laughing at your jokes.}

{Well, statistically I was bound to say something funny sooner or later. By random chance, see. Come now, my angel, why is it so worrisome that he’s eager to go to school? If worse comes to worst, he’ll doze off in class from not sleeping last night. If better comes to best, he’ll have a great day with his new friend, Tipper.}

“Dipper.” Norman smiled as he said it.

And Elaine noticed that. {You’re . . . right, Detoby.}

He shrugged apologetically. {Statistics. Random chance.}

She floated aside. {Alright . . . Just remember you can tell me anything, Normy. _Anything_.}

“Um . . . Okay.”

{Bad or good. Especially good, if you want. Love you, Normy,} she said as she returned home.

“Um . . . Love you too, Grandma . . . So, ‘battier than’ what exactly?” the boy Medium inquired of Detoby.

{Hmm? Oh! Battier than Dracula on a baseball team.} The Jokergeist quipped as they moved on.

“Ha! Not bad. How about . . . ‘loopier than a roller coaster’?”

{It’s the tops. And the bottoms, but the tops again. Now . . . Dippier than . . . well, your friend?}

“Not funny.”

****

As Candy and Grenda fluttered about her, Mabel murmured, “Guys, I’m not sure about this . . .”

“Hold still, or you will have a lipstick mustache,” Candy warned.

“But . . . What if today is just a repeat of yesterday?”

“Your look has already debuted, and your fans not only outnumber your critics, but are ready apparently to make war on them,” Candy asserted. “I believe the school matter is settled.”

“You’re like a middle school Helen of Troy!” Grenda assured her.

“But I don’t want that! I just wanna wear something pretty and dark!” Mabel declared. “I just wanna be alone, not some goth queen . . .”

Biting her lip, Candy faltered, “Do you want us . . . Do you still like the look?”

“I do, but—”

“Then let’s give it one more try,” Grenda urged her. “They’re not the boss of us. You are, apparently, the boss of them!”

“Hurray for Boss Mabel!” Candy said. “Huzzah for Lady Mabelladonna!”

“Why not just ‘hurray for Lady Mabelladonna’?” Grenda wondered.

“Because she is a duchess. You say ‘huzzah’ for duchesses. Etiquette demands it.”

“You’re so wise, Candy.”

From the base of the stairs, Stan hollered, “YOU GIRLS READY YET?!”

Stepping back to admire her work, Candy nodded. “I think so.” She held up a mirror for Mabel, saying, “You are beautiful, like the dusk. Be as confident as the dusk. That, too, is a step towards complete beauty.”

Mabel considered that. “How is the dusk confident?”

“Nothing stops the dusk,” Grenda stated as she crowned Mabel with her top hat. “And nothing stops Mabel. Or us. We are unstoppable!”

“GIRLS!”

“Coming!”

As they descended the stairs, Dipper said encouragingly, “Looking good!”

Mabel eyed him coolly. “Oh. I’m surprised to see you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” he retorted.

“Hmph! Throw something at his head,” she commanded imperiously.

“What? Why? He _complimented_ you,” Candy protested.

Mabel made no answer, but she did start rummaging through her bag for a projectile.

“I’m doing it!” Candy said quickly, though what she threw was a cinnamon muffin. And she didn’t throw so much as toss it. Of course, Dipper caught it.

Stan heaved a sigh. “Alright. Mabel Syrup, don’t throw things at your brother. Or command someone else to throw things at him either. Or look for loopholes, such as suggesting that someone throw things at him, tricking someone into throwing things at him, or accidentally (in any way) send things flying at him. Let’s all just get in the car and drive to school. Dipping Sauce, why don’t you take shotgun?” he added in an undertone.

“Okay, Guncle Stan,” Dipper acquiesced with a glare at Mabel.

To everyone’s surprise, however, as they exited the Mystery Shack, the two palanquin bearers came jogging down the road. They slowed to a halt just before the door and bobbed their mohawks deferentially. “Good morrow, Your Dark Grace!” one said, while the other asked, “Ready for school?”

Stan recovered first. “What the llama-loathing heck?”

For her part, Mabel pursed her lips and slid into the car.

“Your Dark Grace?” one of the palanquin bearers asked.

Grenda and Candy followed Mabel. Then Dipper and Stan.

“But Your Dark Gr—”

Tires screeched as Stan accelerated away. To his amused relief, the palanquin bearers were sprinting after them.

“Come back, Your Dark Grace!”

Unbeknownst to them all, a form slunk (cursing) into the woods. “Next time, Pretender . . .”

Upon reaching the school, another surprise greeted them: a good portion of the student body was waiting near the front entrance for Mabel’s arrival. Perhaps they recognized the potential for excellent street theatre.

“Isn’t that the new Grand Goth?” someone shouted.

“But she’s so young . . .”

Among them, Pacifica sneered, “A nightmare clown to rule the nightmare clowns.”

Her minions laughed, and so did some other people nearby. “Yeah, goths are so weird . . .”

“Why would you even dress like that?”

However, they fell silent when Mabel stepped from the car. They were waiting for something. She blanched at such unwelcome attention, though her makeup made it impossible to tell.

Dipper made a gesture of capitulation. “I’m so out. This is all just too weird.”

Stan nodded his agreement. “Yeah. And I thought it couldn’t get any weirder after that—whatchamacallit?—those kids with the harlequin thing.”

“Say something to them,” Candy urged Mabel quietly.

“Um . . .” Mabel stepped forward. “Er . . . I am Lady Mabelladonna! Thank you for being here! And thank you to my two best friends, who made this outfit possible!”

A confused smattering of applause followed. Someone shouted, “Are you the Grand Goth now?”

“N-no! But I am the Duchess of Darkness and Desolation! Marquise of Misery and Malaise! Queen of . . . um Quilts?” she murmured to herself. “Quiet? Quips? Quests? Er . . . QUEEN OF GOTHIC-ness! Stuff!”

“Rejoice!” Candy and Grenda chorused together.

More confused applause.

“Are you sure you’re not the Grand Goth?”

“Yes!”

“What’s the difference?”

“It doesn’t matter! I don’t wanna be the Grand Goth! I just wanna be my own goth!”

“Why be goth at all?”

“L-life is meaningless! An empty pit of complete blackness! Everything that you know and love will end! Eventually, all traces of human accomplishment will be effaced by a cold, uncaring universe! That is the only permanent truth in existence! My dress choice reflects that!”

Someone in the crowd said, “Wow! I feel really depressed right now. This must be deep.”

“Yeah!” their neighbor agreed ecstatically. “It’s like my soul just curled up in a corner to cry.”

“Tell us more!”

Mabel spread her arms wide and proclaimed, “All endeavor is futile! Joy is only a brief illusion! Death is the only reality, and it shall claim EVERYTHING and EVERYONE!”

“Rejoice!” Grenda and Candy chorused again. Because what else were they supposed to say?

And the crowd burst into wild applause.

“Share more wisdom with us!”

“Teach us to be depressed!”

“I wanna be goth, too!”

“Me too!”

Among the mob, the Keeper of the Precepts gazed from the Gothicnomicon to Mabel and back. “It’s all here . . . She really is the Promised One . . . That I should live to see this darkly-glorious day . . . ALL HAIL THE GRAND GOTH!”

“No!” Mabel shouted back. “No hailing!”

But the chant had been taken up. “GRAND GOTH! GRAND GOTH! GRAND GOTH!”

“No! Shut up! As Grand Goth, I command you not to make me the Grand Goth!”

“GRAND GOTH! GRAND GOTH! GRAND GOTH!”

Mabel, Candy, and Grenda had no choice but to plow ahead—a task for which Grenda was singularly qualified.

As they passed Pacifica, she shouted at them, “You’re dressed like a circus clown!”

“Pacifica dares to impugn the Grand Goth!” someone cried. “Boo!”

“She dares to mock an orphan who gained bleak wisdom at the cost of her parents! Boo!”

“Just keep moving forward!” Candy shouted to Mabel. “Just keep moving!”

Pacifica rounded on the crowd in impotent rage. “But she—”

“BOO! BOOOOO!”

The girls found some shelter in the corridors of the school, and fled to each of their respective lockers in turn. Mabel’s was last, and yet another surprise awaited them within it: a second avalanche of rose petals (these ones were black). The card that fell out last featured (predictably) a picture of Gideon, but in this one he was dressed quite differently than his usual rhinestone self.

“Whoa . . . He looks like a short, pudgy Sephiroth with a pompadour . . .” Candy said, fascinated in spite of herself.

“And what’s it say?” Mabel asked reluctantly as Grenda helped dig her out.

“To my devil’s food cake. Now that I’m a vampire too, you can be my queen of the night. P.S. You have an exquisite neck.” Candy read. “Whoa my . . . What should I—”

“Ignore it,” Mabel sighed. “Ignore it all, or we’re gonna be late for class . . .”

****

“Hey, man!”

Norman looked up from his homework, and his whole countenance seemed to brighten. “H-hey! I was s-starting to worry you’d _forgotten_ about me.”

“Nah, just had to fight my way through the crowd at the front of the building. Wanna muffin?” Dipper tossed the confection over. “It’s cinnamon—supposedly the king of spices.”

“Thanks!” Norman exclaimed.

{Personally, I always thought saffron was the king of spices,}

“Who’s the queen then? Of spices,” Norman added for Dipper’s benefit.

{Mmm . . . Cayenne.}

Dipper shrugged when Norman transmitted that answer. “Yeah, I guess. Or maybe paprika?”

“Ginger?” the boy Medium suggested.

{I’m telling you, it’s cayenne.}

“We can always ask in Home Ec.” the behatted boy said as he pulled Norman up onto his feet. “Of course, spices _could_ live in a Democratic Republic. Maybe we should be wondering about their President and their Speaker of the House and such.”

“It could be a C-Constitutional Monarchy,” Norman pointed out shyly. “With a Prime Minister. Basil, probably. M-maybe a Chancellery? I’ve always thought ‘Chancellor’ was the coolest t-title.”

{Let’s not overthink this. Spices clearly have a king and queen.}

Dipper grinned. “You want a cool sounding title? I forget where I learned this, but apparently the second-in-command of the Byzantine Empire was called the ‘Megaduke’.”

“Megaduke? No way! That sounds too epic to be an actual thing.”

“Course, that was back when the capital was Constantinople, not Istanbul. Why they changed it, I can’t say—”

“People just liked it better that way,” Norman concluded with his own grin.

{The _Turks_ liked it better that way,} Detoby clarified. {And they won, so they got their say . . .}

“I’m surprised you’re here and not among the crowd of spectators,” Dipper stated.

“Spectators? For what?”

“My sister’s triumphal arrival,” the behatted boy said sarcastically. “Looks like the goths wanna make her their queen, too. Add them to the list.”

“Oh, yeah . . . My sister did mention something about the goths yesterday . . .” Standing outside his first class, Norman tried to remember.

{Goths? Like . . . the German kids?} Detoby asked, very much confused.

“No, goths like . . .” Norman stopped, utterly stymied. “I have no idea where to even begin describing them . . . I’ll point one out when I see one. Was it a fight yesterday? Courtney made it sound like a freaking civil war.”

“Yeah. About making my sister their queen, I guess. I’m not really sure about the details . . . Mabel . . . she kinda won’t talk to me . . .” Dipper admitted aversely. “About this—her ascension to the goth throne—or anything really.”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea. I really don’t. She’s just mad at me for no reason. Or if there is one, she’s not telling me. Which is even more frustrating.” Looking away bitterly, he muttered, “You do everything you can for a person, and this is how they thank you . . .”

They stood (and floated) there in silence for a moment. Detoby murmured, {Er . . . Awkward . . .}

“Sorry,” Dipper said heavily. “I didn’t mean to throw all that at you.”

“It’s okay,” Norman assured him quickly. “If you w-want . . . we can t-talk about it during lunch?”

BRRRIIIIIINNNGGG!

They all startled. Then Dipper laughed at himself. “Nah. We’ll talk about something more fun. See you in Home Ec.” And he ran off to his class.

“Y-yeah! You too!”

****

Despite the mob of people begging to learn wisdom from her dark lips, Mabel (with her friends) managed to procure lunch and secure a free table. It was almost impossible to eat, however—not that Mabel actually had any appetite. And then the Keeper of the Precepts arrived with a contingent of goths to form a protective perimeter.

A form that had almost emerged from the shadows melted back into them. “Soon, Pretender. They can’t defend you forever . . .”

To the ring of goths, Grenda said, “Um . . . Thanks for the elbow room.”

“What do you want?” Mabel demanded.

The Keeper of the Precepts bowed. “By your leave, I would speak with Your Grand Gothness.”

“I am _not_ the Grand Goth. I _don’t_ _wanna_ _be_ the Grand Goth. I just wanna be the Mabel goth.”

“But there _must_ be a Grand Goth,” he protested.

“So you be it,” Mabel retorted.

“Me? I would never—could never—presume such dominion. As Keeper of the Precepts, I am sworn to advise and never to ascend.”

“That’s stupid,” Mabel declared flatly.

“If it were not so, a Keeper of the Precepts could pervert the Dark Order for their own ambition. Thus we are sworn to serve others, and never ourselves.”

“Then choose someone else to serve!” Mabel snapped impatiently.

“But we cannot. According to the Dark Order, which we follow,” the chubby boy said with a wide gesture at his goth compatriots, “only _you_ are worthy.”

“How many times do I gotta say I don’t want it?!”

“Forgive me, Your Dark Grace. It seems that some are born to gothness, while others have gothness thrust upon them. You . . .” he hesitated. “_Both_ in your case. For I believe . . . if I have not misinterpreted the Gothicnomicon . . .”

“Spit it out already.”

“You are the _Promised_ _One_,” the Keeper of the Precepts declared with meek certainty. “Not just the Grand Goth of this Consortium, but the _Grandest_ of Goths. The one who will lead us to Dark Glory.”

Candy, Grenda, and Mabel; all three of their jaws dropped.

“You’re joking . . .” Candy finally mouthed.

The Keeper of the Precepts shook his head. “I do not jest about the Dark Order. Ever. I do not ask Your Dark Grace to believe me. I only beg you to listen. Perhaps later? After this revelation has . . . sunk in?”

Too stunned for anything else, Mabel nodded mutely.

“After school has ended? The Consortium often meets backstage of the auditorium.”

“Huh. I’d think the drama club would hang out there,” Grenda said.

“Drama geeks are too enamored with the spotlight to appreciate the deep darkness backstage. Why do you think they have lunch in the quad?” Turning back to a stunned Mabel, he inquired humbly, “Shall I have the honor to inform the Consortium that Your Dark Grace will come?”

“I . . . I . . .” Mabel stammered.

“Lady Mabelladonna will _consider_ your offer,” Candy stated.

“That is all I have a right to beg. If it pleases Your Dark Grace, the others will remain to ensure your security.”

“My security?” Mabel repeated.

“There are . . . others who do not share our convictions. The Imposter’s faction has sworn to abase you. In their wrath and vainglory, they have turned away from the Dark Order, I am sad to say. Farewell. Until this afternoon, I hope.” The Keeper of the Precepts bowed and departed. He was texting.

After a moment of silence, Grenda breathed. “O . . . M . . . G . . .”

Candy nodded. “Indeed. Apparently, we are better fashion designers than we think.”

“Hey, you’re right! Our clothes make _queens_!”

“Our clothes make . . . What is even the word? Messiahs?” Candy offered.

“Yeah!” Grenda pounded the table decisively. “I say we go see what he wants!”

Looking sidelong at Mabel, who was stone still, Candy said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea . . .”

“C’mon! They’ll probably feed us grapes and fan us with palm leaves! You _know_ I’ve always wanted to be fanned with palm leaves!”

“You just want to go because you think the Keeper is _cute_,” Candy objected.

“I . . . N-_no_, I don’t!” Grenda blushed. “Besides, you only think this is a bad idea because D—”

Candy cut her off, “Baseless allegations!”

“Can we get back on topic here?!” Mabel burst out. “The topic being that they want me for their Chosen One—or something!”

“I’m not really seeing how that’s such a bad thing,” Grenda confessed. “It could be fun! I did mention the possibility of being fanned with palm leaves, right? This could be just like that movie about El Dorado!”

“Have you ever actually watched that movie all the way through?” Mabel demanded testily. “The ‘heroes’ nearly get eaten by a giant jaguar!”

Grenda considered that, then reasonably asked, “The goths don’t have a giant jaguar, do they? How about we go, and if they have one, we won’t pretend to be their Chosen One?”

“There’s no ‘we’, because _I_ am the Chosen One!” Mabel snapped. “Except I’m _not_! And I don’t wanna be! Stop thinking I’m your Chosen One!” she shrilled at their protective perimeter.

One of them looked back. “The Moon is the Moon, even when it doesn’t want to be.”

Candy gasped. “That is _beautiful_!”

“GAR!” Mabel burst out and buried her face in her arms. Eventually, she pointed at her friends. “This is all _your_ fault . . . You and your stupid fashion phenomenalness . . .”

“Well . . . you could always stop wearing the goth outfit,” Grenda suggested.

“But I _like_ it . . .” Mabel whined.

“Look, what’s the worst that happens if we go? You tell them once and for all that you’re not whoever they want you to be, and we leave. Best case scenario, you decide maybe it’s okay and assign some goths to be my palm fanners. She can do that, right?” Grenda asked the goth who had spoken.

“Yes, Her Dark Grace can do that.”

“Eh? Eh?”

Mabel sighed longer and heavier than should be humanly possible. “_Fffffffiiiiiiiiinnnnneeeee_ . . .”

Candy folded her arms crossly. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

****

“I’m _serious_! There’s a gremloblin in the woods!” Dipper asserted as they proceeded through the school. “Or there _was_ . . .”

“A half-gremlin-half-goblin?” Norman asked dubiously as they walked from the cafeteria. “Who gives people nightmares so it can eat their dreams?”

“Exactly.”

Detoby snorted. {And I suppose dreamcatchers keep it away?}

Norman transmitted the question. With only marginally diminished sarcasm.

But Dipper considered it seriously. “Maybe, if it’s big enough . . . A _real_ one, mind you. Made by a _real_ medicine man . . .”

{He’s having you, Bugaboo. There’s no such thing as goblins or gremlins.}

“I think Grandmother Chiu might disagree with you on that one.”

{Below the belt . . .}

To be completely honest, Norman wasn’t sure if he believed it or not. It sounded laughable, yet Dipper was so insistent that it was the truth. This could be a setup, he recognized that, but it did not feel like a setup; Dipper just seemed too frank and forthright.

“Why do you say ‘was’?” the Medium asked as they turned down the hall that led to the field with the bleachers.

“Well, it _might_ have moved on from Gravity Falls after it escaped. You see, once, when the Mystery Shack needed a new attraction to raise some quick cash (long story, but my sister made a bet she could be a better boss than my Gruncle Stan), I hunted it down and captured it.”

{_Right_.}

“It was a close fight, but fortunately I knew its one weakness: a mace to the face!”

It was said so candidly and proudly that Norman couldn’t help but laugh.

“Although, granted, most things are probably weak against maces to their faces.”

“Y-yeah, I bet!” Norman chortled.

“But it escaped (meaning Mabel gave it a freakin’ _coffee_ _break_) and I haven’t seen it since,” Dipper concluded. “Which is probably for the best. Its nightmare power was pretty freaky.”

{‘For the best’ in that now there is no proof. But at least he spins an entertaining yarn.}

“Unlike the guy we’re gonna see today. He looks terrifying, but he’s actually really—_no_ . . .” Grinding to a halt before the door, the behatted boy gazed despairingly through the glass.

“Oh. Raining,” Norman observed. “Guess we shouldn’t sit under the bleachers after all.”

“_No_.” Dipper fell to his knees. “_Noooooo_!”

“S-so . . . I guess we c-can’t go hiking today?” Norman asked, somewhat disappointed.

{And can’t meet Paul Bunyan and his blue ox. How convenient.}

“Detoby seems to think that’s rather convenient—”

“_Convenient_?!” Dipper sputtered. “Where is he?!” And, after Norman indicated the space the Jokergaist occupied, Dipper rounded on it. “How is this convenient?! I can’t prove my story if we can’t go hiking! This is like the opposite of convenient! This is like the textbook definition of inconvenient!” Slumping against the wall, he lamented, “The heavens hate me . . .”

“It’s n-not that big a deal,” the Medium assured him. “We can always do s-something else.”

“Yeah . . . It’s just disappointing. Oh well. We can do it tomorrow, if you like.”

“S-sure.”

“And today . . . I dunno. Wanna go to the arcade? Maybe see a movie?”

{You do have possibly one whole ton of those,} Detoby suggested.

“S-sounds fun,” Norman agreed at once.

****

The final bell had rung; the girls approached the auditorium through the end-of-school melee. Not without trepidation, for they went to meet a group that defined itself by darkness and the macabre, but not without determination. They only hesitated when they first came in sight of the double doors.

“It’s not too late,” Candy pointed out. “We did not say we would come . . . At the very least, maybe we could bring your brother for backup?”

Mabel clenched her fists.

“He’s surprisingly good in a fight, is all I’m saying. He’s taken down some impressive—”

Mabel cut her off curtly. “We don’t _need_ Dipstick. He can go do _whatever_ is so important to him. We’ll take care of this.” And she marched forward.

Two goths tripped over themselves to open the doors for them. “Your Grand Gothness!”

Grumbling, Mabel led the advance down the aisle. Goths threw themselves onto their knees before her, deferentially mumbling terms of respect. The smarter ones intoned, “Your Dark Grace!”

“Perhaps, later, they’ll be spared . . .” she said under her breath.

Before they had mounted the stage, the Keeper of the Precepts scurried forward to greet them. He was beaming. “ALL HAIL . . . um LADY MABELLADONNA!”

“ALL HAIL!”

“We’re so honored Your Dark Grace has um . . . graced us with your er . . . grace . . .” he faltered. “Please, this way; your throne awaits.”

“Ooo . . . _Throne_ . . .” Grenda whispered excitedly.

But when the throne was revealed to be a ratty, old couch (one at which Candy grimaced, “Unhygienic . . .”) they all stopped short.

“Is something the matter, Your Dark Grace?” All the Consortium seemed to be on tenterhooks.

Mabel hesitated. “If I give an order, you guys are going to follow it, right?”

“It would be our honor. Our privilege, even.”

“Okay then . . .” Rolling her shoulders back, Mabel straightened up to her full imperious height. Four feet and nine inches (plus ten more from the top hat). “First, I want a sheet to cover that couch, because it’s gross.”

“But . . . each stain is a memorial to the Grand Goths that came before!” someone protested.

“Then the Grand Goths were disgusting slobs. Find me a sheet. A clean one,” she rapped out.

Several member of the Consortium dashed off, crying, “At once!”

“And let’s get some lights on in here,” Mabel commanded.

“But . . . We are the Dark Order—the _Dark_ Order.”

“I’m not a bat,” Mabel retorted testily. “I can’t echolocate. Lights! Chop-chop!”

A brief debate ensued as to which lights should be illuminated. Some thought that red alone would be appropriately demonic for the Consortium, others that purple would be closest to a black light. Naturally, the opponents of red light argued that it would make them look like “bleached-out nazis”, while the opponents of purple light maintained that such would make them look like “gay emo smurfs”.

The insults might have reached 4chanesque proportions had not Mabel abruptly intervened. “Just turn on all the colored lights.”

“But then . . . won’t we look like a rainbow?”

Waving the question off dismissively, Mabel said, “A dark rainbow. Everyone can have the color of light they want.”

“Ah!”

“So wise!”

“Magnificent!”

And the Keeper of the Precepts nodded proudly. “You see? You were born to command us.”

“Why do you _need_ someone to command you? It was an _obvious_ solution!”

At her side, Grenda cleared her throat unobtrusively. She gave Mabel a hopeful look.

“Oh, fine. Does anyone here have any grapes?”

A goth advanced. “Um. If it pleases Your Dark Grace, I have black grapes.”

“I might have figured,” Mabel sighed. “What about palm leaves?”

“Maybe . . . in the props closet? I’ll go check.”

Triumphantly, several goths returned with a sheet to drape over the couch. “Is this acceptable?”

“Thank you, yes. Now, you,” she pointed at random as she sat. “Run to the parking lot. There’ll be a red car with a man in a fez at the wheel. Tell him I sent you, that I’m sorting out the goth problem, and that I might be a while. Tell him thanks and love, but I’ll see him at home.”

“Yes, Your Dark Grace!”

Grenda laughed out loud. “Your gruncle is gonna be weirded out by that!”

“I found some palm fronds!” the grape goth shouted ecstatically.

“Good,” Mabel said. “Find someone who doesn’t look busy, and give them the palm leaves. Then I want both of you before me.”

“As you wish!”

Mabel, while she waited, waved Candy and Grenda over to join her. Both did, Grenda happily lounging on the left, and Candy with his arms crossed warily to the right.

When the grape goth returned with a compatriot, Mabel commanded the latter, “Fan us.”

“Of course!”

Mabel then eyed the grape goth appraisingly before declaring, “You seem sufficiently comely.”

“Um . . . Thank you, Your Dark Grace.”

“Is he, Grenda?”

The larger girl grinned. “Oh yeah. He’ll do nicely.”

With a nod to the larger girl (who already had her mouth open expectantly), Mabel ordered, “Feed the grapes to my friend.”

Without hesitation, the grape goth did as he was bid.

“This is the life!” Grenda exalted around the first one. “Keep ‘em coming, grape boy!”

Yet Mabel was flabbergasted. “You’re . . . actually doing it . . .”

“You commanded him to do so,” the Keeper of the Precepts pointed out.

“But . . . But it’s _absolutely_ _absurd_! I didn’t expect him to _actually_ do it!”

“Do you . . . want me to _not_ obey you?” the grape goth asked uncertainty.

“Yes! Because what I told you to do was _absolutely_ _absurd_!”

“Don’t ruin this for me!” Grenda protested.

Leaping to her feet, Mabel demanded, “What if I tell you all to stand on one foot?”

Silence greeted her. Then someone asked, “Which foot?”

“Neither!”

“So . . . on our hands?”

“Or maybe on rulers?”

“Ah! A trick command!”

“Please explain to us what you want, Your Dark Grace.”

Mabel’s palm met her painted forehead in exasperation. “Don’t you guys understand how _ridiculous_ you all sound?”

“For obeying you?” the Keeper of the Precepts asked.

“Yes! For obeying me and my absurd commands!”

“Oh, this is nothing,” the grape goth declared brightly (still periodically placing grapes into Grenda’s waiting maw). “Once, the old Grand—I mean, the _Imposter_—made me stand in line for tickets to a concert she/he wanted to see. For three days.”

“You just obey the Grand Goth without even thinking about what you’re doing?” Candy asked incredulously. “But why? What makes the Grand Goth so special?”

“I was hoping you would ask,” the Keeper of the Precepts said in quiet ecstasy. From his cloak, he withdrew the Gothicnomicon and held it before him. “The founders of our Dark Order dictated that this must be so. They read in the shadows that a Consortium would need a leader to maintain its purity. They would need a goth whose grandness would permit them to judge the worthiness of all who enter into and tread upon this path, lest the Dark Order be polluted by faithless poseurs.”

A collective shudder ran through the Consortium. Some hissed, “_Poseurs_!”

“Thus the Grand Goth alone is worthy to command, worthy to test and promote us.”

Candy cleared her throat. “Earlier, you said _you_ can’t be the Grand Goth because it’s forbidden. A Keeper could pervert things for their own ambition, yes? Couldn’t a Grand Goth do that, too?”

“Because it sure sounds like the previous Grand Goth was taking advantage of you,” Grenda said (around another grape).

Gazing directly at Mabel, the Keeper of the Precepts declared, “That is where the Promised One comes in. As Grandest of Goths, you will judge the worthiness of even the Grand Goths. You will expose they who are secretly poseurs among us and cast them into accursed light. It is all here! All prophesied!” And he held the leather-bound tome on high.

“By who, exactly?” Mabel asked.

“The founders our Dark Order. The original goths. This contains their secret prophecies—prophecies about you, Your Grand Gothness. ALL HAIL THE GRAND GOTH!”

“ALL HAIL THE GRAND GOTH!”

“The next person to call me that loses a piercing!” Mabel snapped. “I can do that, right? Wait. Yes, _of_ _course_ I can. Y’know why? Because I’m _Mabel_ _freakin’_ _Pines_! Now, I have some questions.”

“I am here to answer all your questions, Your . . . Dark Grace.”

“What exactly is a poseur?”

“A poseur is a pretender—someone who makes an outward show of being a goth, yet is not.”

“So a person can’t just dress like a goth? They can’t just like the look for a week or whatever?”

“Thus spake Gothathustra: if an orange has an apple core, no one trusts the oranges anymore,” the Keeper of the Precepts intoned.

“It is true,” someone intoned. Others whispered, “So wise . . .”

Mabel and Candy exchanged a glance. Grenda was receiving another grape at that moment. Candy made the inquiry, “Huh?”

“It would be a lie—a lie which would diminish all goths in the eyes of the world.”

“So? What do we care what the world thinks?” Mabel challenged him. “Besides, it’s not a lie if the person wearing goth clothes is expressing the darkness they truly feel. Like me.”

The Keeper of the Precepts was taken aback. “Are you saying—”

“Second question: why am_ I_ the Promised One? What makes you so sure it’s _me_?”

Gesturing to the Gothicnomicon, he replied straightly, “The prophecies—you fit all of them. Permit me to read a few:

Young is the Promise. Yea, seemingly an infant. Yet speaking words as wise as an ancient. (Gothathustra also said that, and . . . well, you’re the youngest Grand Goth I’ve ever heard of.)

Anguish! Anguish, beyond ken! The Promised One shall know the loss of kin! Loneliness shall stalk and take what can, giving worthiness to end the greatest con! (That’s about the pain you’ve felt, how it makes you able to expose those who pretend to know existential angst beyond their experience. Sidgotha Gothtama said that.)

To the Umbra we shall offer handmade shadow, but the Umbra shall think our offering shallow. Break it upon our unworthy back! Teach us the wisdom that we lack! Ah! Ah! Yeah! Oh, yes! Harder! Chastise us, for we have been naughty! Teach us now to behave properly! Ah! Harder! Harder! Ah! Ah! (And it . . . er, goes on like that for about a page. John the Begothed was . . . yeah. Enough said. But this is clearly about how we offered you the Umbral Umbrella as a token of your authority, but you broke it to teach us the true Dark Order.)

Took the black, it was not given. Made the black by blackness driven. Own hands wrought the shine of stone. Own hands wrought to stand alone. (And that is in reference to your handmade look, besides being the Promised One. From Nostragothus.)”

“That all sounds . . . kinda circumstantial . . .” Mabel said iffily.

Shaking his head, the Keeper of the Precepts affirmed, “I have _seen_ the dark. It can _only_ be you.”

“But I don’t wanna be the Promised One,” she countered. “You can’t make me.”

“No, but it is your destiny to command us.”

Stamping in frustration, Mabel cried, “_WHY_ do you _NEED_ someone to command you?!”

“To keep out the poseurs—”

“I’M A POSEUR!”

A horrified silence fell over the Consortium.

Mabel ranted, “I don’t like goth music! I’m not gonna get a bunch of piercings or a weird tattoo! I think your crazy, stupid belief system is totally crazy, stupid! I’m dressing this way because . . . because I like the look . . . because I’m sad and angry and it feels like I’m in a dark place. Maybe forever. This . . . this m-makes me feel a little b-better, even if maybe it sh-_shouldn’t_ . . .”

Candy stood and tried to put an arm around her friend, but Mabel shrugged it off. She appeared to be fighting tears, and knew that bit of kindness would rout her.

“So yeah. I’m a poseur. And _what_ is the big deal with that? I’m not ruining anything for anyone. Why can’t you guys just do whatever you like? So long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, why should they care? Why should you care what they do? Live and let live is what I’m saying.”

“But . . . but the Precepts—”

“_Who_ _cares_? I don’t,” Mabel stated quietly. “I’m not gonna let a book by some (probably-dead-from-drugs) people with weird names tell me what I can and can’t do. You shouldn’t either.”

The remaining grapes tumbled from the grape goth’s slack hands. “This! H-_heresy_!” he choked (as if on a grape). “This is _heresy_!”

“Only if she isn’t the Promised One,” the Keeper of the Precepts reasoned weakly. “But she _is_.”

“What? Because her parents are dead and she decided to throw a tantrum?”

Nearly everyone gasped. Someone murmured, “Dude!”

“Gee, I wish _my_ parents would _kick_ _it_ so I could do whatever the hell I felt li—”

BAM!

Grenda had somehow gone from lounging to face-punching without passing through any intermediary positions whatsoever. Now she stood over the laid out grape goth, breathing very hard. “Your face just got a lot less sufficiently comely, pal!”

“Oh no she didn’t . . .”

“Oh yes she did . . .”

A single sob echoed through the auditorium. All eyes returned to Mabel as her control eroded. She finally lost the struggle with her emotions, and tears streamed down her face. “I knew . . . it was . . . a bad idea to come here . . .”

The Keeper of the Precepts took a hesitant step forward. “Your Dark Grace! I’m so—”

“Shut up. Just shut up, all of you . . . You wanna command? Here’s your _one_ _and_ _only_ command: leave me the heck alone. All of you! J-just . . . _just_ _leave_ _me_ _alone_ . . .”

She ran from the auditorium. Of course, Grenda and Candy followed after; what are friends for?

A moment of silence hung over the Consortium. Eventually, someone asked, “What now?”

“Yeah. She revealed _herself_ to be a poseur, so who’s supposed to replace her as Grand Goth? What do the Precepts say?”

His voice ragged, the Keeper of the Precepts answered, “They say _she_ _is_ _the_ _Promised_ _One_.”

“But—”

“No one replaces the Promised One. The Promised One replaces all who came before. _That_ is what the Precepts say!” he asserted angrily.

“We’re supposed to follow a poseur now?” someone asked disbelievingly.

“What if . . . What if she _isn’t_? Hear me out! What if we’ve all _misunderstood_ the Dark Order? Y’know, this _whole_ _time_? And she just showed us the truth?”

“Well, she _did_ just redefine ‘poseur’ . . . I guess, by her definition, she isn’t one.”

THUD.

The Gothicnomicon had fallen from the hands of the Keeper of the Precepts. He was shaking under his pimpingly popped collar. “The true order . . . the _True _Dark Order . . .”

“Ohmygoth!” someone exclaimed. “Don’t you all get it?! She said ‘do whatever you like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone’! That’ like . . . _basic_ goth! It’s more than basic goth! It’s so goth, it’s _punk_!”

“Punk? Then . . . she preaches _anarchy_?”

“She said ‘why do you need someone to command you?’ meaning that we don’t! It is anarchy! Goth is meant to return to its punk roots! ANARCHY IN THE UK!”

“But we don’t live in the UK,” someone pointed out reasonably.

“Then . . . ANARCHY IN THE . . . HERE! Okay?”

Like a whisper that the whole world can hear, the Keeper of the Precepts realized, “But it’s _not_.”

The excitement quelled for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that this is _deeper_ than anarchy. It _transcends_ it. I’m such a _fool_ for not seeing it . . .” Snatching up the leather-bound tome, he paged and read through it like a man possessed. “It’s all here! It was _always_ all here! But I couldn’t sense it in the dark! My eyes were too filled with the false light of my false understanding! She . . . she had to show us the truth of the Dark Order . . .”

“What?”

“Yes, what?”

“Tell us!”

“It is not _anarchy_; punks do what they want without concern for others. But it is not the false idolization of a figure who . . . who chains us with our piercings and blinds us with the shininess of our accessories and makeup—glinting with accursed light!” he spat. “Not our _corrupted_ gothness. In which we’ve permitted another to think for us and rank us. To decide how dark we are in our hearts. _Foolish_!”

“What is it then?”

The Keeper of the Precepts looked up with eyes that did not shine or glint. Eyes are the window to the soul, and his had plunged into the deep darkness of true gothness. “Freedom. It is _freedom_ tempered with . . . with respect for the freedom of others. Which in turn secures our own freedom! Anarchy does not do that, _but_ _this_ _does_!”

The ramifications slowly began to sink in. Like a mantra, people began repeating, “Do whatever you like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

A goth stepped forward. “If I want to wear more than the allotted piercings to my rank?”

“Then wear them,” the Keeper of the Precepts answered.

“And if I don’t like piercings?”

“Then . . . don’t wear them, I guess.”

Piercings clattered to the floor. “I’m keeping the makeup. Gonna get a pink streak in my hair!”

Another stepped forward timidly. “What if . . . I wanna spend every moment with Joseph?”

The goth named Joseph turned in surprise. “You do?”

“Then . . . ask him out,” the Keeper of the Precepts advised. “Girls can do that now.”

Breathlessly, Joseph asked, “You . . . want to go out with me?”

“Yes. Since forever. I love you like Victoria loves Victor! But I never dared say it!”

“I love you like Victor loves Victoria! But I never dared say it!”

“Oh, _Joseph_!”

“Oh, _Josephine_!”

They fell into each other’s sun-deprived arms, their black lips interlocked. _Really_ interlocked.

The Keeper of the Precepts (and the entire Consortium) gawked in openmouthed astonishment for an unintentional moment. Eventually, he recovered enough to say, “_Yeesh_ . . . Get a room, you two. There are _Acolytes_ present.”

“We don’t mind!”

“Not at all!”

“Woot! Woot!”

“Yeah, I’ve been shipping these two since like _last_ _year_.”

“Really?”

“Go on tumblr and search for ‘Joseph/ine’. The art goes back a long, looooong way . . . I kinda have an obsession. Maybe an unhealthy one . . .”

“That explains why you’re taking pictures, I suppose.”

“I need them for reference material!”

“That’s an interesting euphemism.”

“Your face is an interesting euphemism! For butt!”

“Regardless,” the Keeper of the Precepts interposed. “I think . . . I think we have a duty to share these revelations with the goth world.”

“About Joseph and Josephine? Or the Promised One?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m gonna do both once I get a few sketches made . . .”

“What should we do?” someone asked for them all.

“Spread the Dark Word,” the Keeper of the Precepts urged them. “Quickly, everyone! To the chat boards and the blogosphere! If you feel like it, I mean. Which you should!”

“And then to tumblr!”

****

{Talkies that talk back . . .} Detoby mouthed in wonder. {Games that play with you . . .}

Though it had clearly seen better days, the arcade was a wonder to the Jokergeist. Electronics astounded him, and here was a temple to their ultimate pinnacle: video games. True, these were relics that had reached the point of being retro, but the most advanced gaming technology he had ever seen prior to this was a pinball machine.

{Talkies that talk back . . .}

“I heard you the first twenty times, Detoby! You’re gonna make me lose!” Norman complained, swerving to stay on the course of Sugar Rush.

{I’ve never been in here before! I always through it was a surrealist art gallery!}

“Maybe it’s that you drive like a grandma which causes you to lose?” Dipper taunted Norman.

Nailing a power boost donut, Norman zipped into the lead. “A grandma from Pasadena, maybe. Or should I say, from ‘Pass-a-Dipper’?”

“Huh?”

“It’s . . . an oldies song my grandma liked. Likes. Whatever. The point is—Wait! Not the blue pie! _Not now_!”

In an explosion of blueberries, Norman was blasted into the air mere feet from the finish line. Before his racer could recover, Dipper’s flew by.

“Ha! Dipper wins _again_!”

{Why would a blueberry pie explode?} Detoby wondered. {Why does it seek the leading racer?}

“Because the game cheats . . .” Norman sulked.

Flushed with victory, Dipper rounded on him, “Whoa now, them’s fighting game words!”

{Yes! A grudge match! On this game!} Detoby exclaimed, zooming over to a first-person-shooter. {It looks . . . _magnificent_ . . .}

“Zombie Zappers? Detoby, I’m _not_ playing a hate crime. The undead don’t run around gargling ‘Braaains’ and trying to eat people. And it’s not okay to just shoot them, because they’re _people_, too. Not that shooting a real undead would do anything to stop them, but that’s beside the point.”

“Do they even eat?” Dipper wondered.

“W-why would they need to? They’re not alive; they don’t need food to keep moving.”

After reflecting on that for a moment, Dipper asked, “You’re saying that vegetarian zombies don’t want my _graaains_?”

Norman stared as Dipper’s straight face cracked into a grin.

“Heheheh! C’mon, man! That was a good one, admit it. What about Chinese zombies? Are they after my _chowmaaain_?”

Face palm. “I have a cr—Er . . . I have a friend who’s a bigot. Great. Two, if I count Detoby.”

{Hey, what’s this ‘if’ business? I am most definitely a bigot.} And he honked his horn.

“No arguments there . . .”

Laying a hand on Norman’s shoulder, Dipper sympathized, “Friendly zombies feel your _paaain_.”

Perhaps it was his infectious I’m-so-funny grin, or the exaggeratedly groaning emphasis he put on the punchline word, or his horrible so-bad-they’re good puns. Perhaps it was the touch of his hand on Norman’s shoulder. Whatever it was, Dipper was irresistible; Norman’s lips treacherously curled upward all on their own. “Stahahahap! That’s not—”

“Did you know that all European zombies come from _Spaaain_?”

“Not f-fhahaha! Sp-_Spain_?! What the heck?!”

“Or _Ukraaaine_.”

Not to be left out, Detoby joined in. {Conductor zombies drive the _traaains_ . . . I think? It’s just got to rhyme with ‘brain’ to be funny, right?}

“T-traitor!”

{So that’s a yes. Hotsy-Totsy!}

The onslaught continued mercilessly from both sides: plumber zombies unclog your _draaains_; birdwatcher zombies look for _craaanes_; dogwalker zombies prefer Great _Daaanes_; big cheese zombies will drink _champaaagne_; composer zombies write _refraaains_; stockbroker zombies invest for _gaaains_; gorilla zombies like _plantaaains_; flyboy zombies pilot _plaaanes_. And neither Dipper nor the Jokergeist relented—not even when Norman was on the floor, gasping for breath. “C-can’t . . . breathe!”

“That’s alright. Paramedic zombies can splint your _spraaains_.”

“At least . . . s-say ‘undead’!”

“Okay. _Undead_ paramedic zombies splint your _spraaains_.” Pulling Norman up, Dipper offered, “Here, man, lean on me.”

{At least until we find a one-legged zombie who can lend you his _caaane_,} Detoby added.

“I hahahahate you both . . . S-so much!”

“And yet, here you still are.”

“Only because I can’t walk away . . . What time is it, anyway?”

“Um . . .” Dipper looked around. “Ever notice that there are never enough clocks?”

Pulling out his phone, Norman’s eyes widened in shock. “Wow. It’s after six.”

{Already?}

“Seriously? We’ve been hanging out here for like five hours already?” Dipper asked in surprise. “Wow. Didn’t feel like it, huh?”

“T-time flies,” Norman said with a little blush.

{I can’t believe it. I’d better go if I want a good spot,}

“Go where, Detoby?”

{The bar! It’s standup night! You don’t mind, do you, Bugaboo? Except for the first one, I haven’t missed a single standup night ever—not one in eight decades.}

“N-no, it’s fine. Go ahead. To standup night at the bar,” he explained to Dipper. “Why’d you miss the first one?”

{Well, I was bleeding out in the road at the time. Real shame, too . . .}

“Oh, yeah. You were gonna be the opener, right? Well, have fun.”

{I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Twenty-three skidoo!} And the Jokergeist danced away.

“Can you stand again?” Dipper asked with a smirk. “My shoulder’s going numb.”

Norman startled away. “Y-yeah. S-sorry.”

“So . . . What should we do now? I’m almost out of quarters . . . and starving, too.”

“D-do you . . . Maybe, um, wanna go back to my place? For d-dinner?”

“Sure,” Dipper agreed at once. “I should probably call home first, but that’d be great.”

Beaming, Norman said, “C-cool! And I’ve got tons of movies we can w-watch. If you want.”

They paused briefly at the door, seeing that the rain continued to fall. The behatted boy sighed. “Looks like weatherman zombies forecast _raaain_.”

“D-don’t start again! My sides still hurt.”

Adjusting his hat, Dipper leveled the challenge, “Race to your house? Winner picks the movie?”

Narrowing his eyes, Norman pulled up his hood. “It is _so_ on. The parking lot’s the starting point.”

Ignoring the drizzle, both laid their foot at the curb and eyed each other. “You count down,” Dipper said.

“On three. One . . . Two . . . Th—”

“RUNNING ZOMBIES LIKE TO _RAAACE_!”

Norman fell forward onto his hands and knees. “That’s cheheheating!”

But Dipper was already sprinting away. “THAT’S _STRATEGY_! CATCH ME IF YOU CAN, SUCKER!”

****

Poking his head into the living room, Stan dolefully contemplated his great-niece and her pig. The former looked drained (though that might have been the makeup) and disconsolate from crying, while the latter looked disturbingly vivacious (hopefully due to the makeup which Candy and Grenda had applied to it in an unsuccessful attempt to cheer Mabel up). The TV was on, though neither was paying it much attention.

Clearing his throat, Stan announced, “That was your brother. He’s having dinner at a friend’s. Which, apparently, he has. Go figure, right?”

“Dipstick can do whatever he likes. I don’t care,” Mabel murmured.

“Where are your two friends?”

“Home,” she answered flatly.

“Well, I thought this might be a good opportunity for just the two of us to hang out together. Y’know. Have one of those bonding type moments. What d’you feel like eating?”

“Nothing,” she muttered flatly.

“Not even some Fettuccine Alstano?” he asked, temptingly waving a plate in front of her. “Because I just happen to have some right here. And look, it even has freshly packaged mozzarella, parmesan, and miscellaneous white American cheeses on it.”

“No thanks.”

“C’mon, Mabel Syrup, you gotta eat something,” he urged her. “At least a few bites, because you’re starting to look like death—and it has nothing to do with the goth makeup.”

She didn’t fight when he pushed the plate into her hands, but she acted far from interested.

After watching her poke at the food for a minute, he ventured, “I know it’s hard now. But it will get better.”

“How can it?” she asked thickly.

“Little by little. I’m not saying it ever stops hurting,” he declared honestly. “But . . . life goes on. Trust me. I’m old. I have more than a little experience in that department.”

“Whatever.”

“What? You don’t think I know how it feels to lose someone so important, it’s like . . . just like the whole world is ending?” he asked her gently. “I’ve known that more than once. But here I am still.”

Mabel glared up at him with moist eyes. “And are you _happy_?”

“A lot happier than I have been.”

“Who’d you lose that was ‘so important’ then?” she demanded sarcastically.

“Besides my only nephew?” he rhetoricized pointedly. “I’ve lost both my parents. My brother (that’s your grandpa) . . . And we were close, too. He didn’t approve of me, but . . . we talked often . . . At least you still have your brother.”

“Hmph. Yeah . . .” Mabel muttered sarcastically to herself. “Real comfort he is . . .”

“He cares about you. He’s worried about you.”

“Ha . . .”

“I’m not sure what exactly he’s up to recently, but I’d bet my own money he’s got you in mind. Either way, he’s trying to deal with . . . _all_ _this_, too. Cut him some slack, Mabel Syrup,” Stan said gently. “You’re never gonna have a better friend than your brother.”

“I’d have to actually see him to cut him some slack,” she replied bitterly.

“Why are you so angry at him, anyway?”

“He knows why.”

“I’ve asked him. He has no clue.”

“Well, he _should_!” she snapped. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure . . . There is one other really important person I’ve lost . . .” Stan recounted wistfully. “Only, I lost her while we were both still alive. She was beautiful and smart and . . . you might say ‘explosive’,” he chuckled reminiscently. “In every way. As in, she once blew up a car. Boom! Back then, we . . . I thought . . . Long story short, she was perfect and we were in love. Or _I was_, at least . . .”

Curious in spite of herself, Mabel looked up. “What was her name?”

“Esmerelsa . . . I still hear guitars and accordions every time I say her name . . .”

“What happened with her?”

“I don’t know. See, I thought we were gonna start a new life together once we got back here. States—in the States—I mean. But I must’ve said something or done something really wrong . . . because she walked out of my life. Walked right down that pier with _baldy_, got on that jetski, rode it over to our seaplane, and flew out of my life forever.”

“Wow . . .” Mabel breathed. “Just like a _movie_ . . . But why?”

“I don’t know; that’s the thing that really gets me. _She_ _never_ _told_ _me_,” he added emphatically. “No explanation, no note. Not even a goodbye. Just pier, jetski, seaplane, and me standing all alone . . . in _Panama_ . . . I lost Esmerelsa, and I thought the world was over. But, here I am like thirty years later, not breaking down in tears over it or anything!” he said (a little too) brightly.

Mabel considered Stan’s story for a moment. The message seemed to be her life would go on, but she’d grow up to be old, alone, not very subtle, generally disgruntled, and also chronically pantsless. Yay for life . . .

“The point is: it _will_ get better,” he reiterated kindly for emphasis. “The point also is: cut your brother some slack. He’s a guy, and we’re all clueless, but usually trying to do what’s best for everyone. After all, he is your _little_ brother; he needs your help. And the point also is (there’re a lot of points here): never lose your heart to a South American. Maybe never lose your heart period.”

“Um . . . thanks, Gruncle Stan. I’ll think about what you’ve said. Can I put this food away now? I’m really not that hungry.”

Stan sighed. “Five more bites.”

****

As the Babcock family (and Dipper) sat down to a dinner of steamed vegetables, brown rice, and an enthusiastically attempted peanut sauce, Perry asked (perhaps as a distraction from his immorally meatless meal), “So your name is . . . Dipper?”

“That’s what they call me,” the behatted boy replied amicably.

“That’s . . . kind of an odd name, isn’t it?”

“_Dad_!” Norman protested quietly. He was already regretting the invite—maybe this hadn’t been the best idea ever. Somehow, he had failed to factor in the presence of his actual family members at family dinner.

“There’s a perfectly logical explanation for it,” Dipper affirmed. “I just . . . prefer not to discuss it. Like, ever.”

“Names are like that sometimes,” Sandra interposed diplomatically. “You should hear some of the ones we have for Norman.”

“_Mom_!”

“If you give me your number, I’ll text you a list,” Courtney offered with a teasing smile.

“_Traitor_,” Norman hissed at his older sister.

“To be a traitor, don’t I like have to openly declare myself to be on your side? Never did that.”

And Elaine was unhelpfully laughing at the situation.

Politely, Dipper requested, “Could I please have some more of the vegetarian zombie food?”

Norman buried his face in his hands as a slightly confused Sandra asked, “The what, sorry?”

“The graaains. Please.”

“Oh, of course. That’s very clever. Did Norman tell you that?”

“Actually, I told him. He seems to think it’s a hate crime, though.”

“For using the Z-word, right?” Perry asked longsufferingly. “Has he, er, told you why?”

“_Perry_,” Sandra warned him quietly.

“You mean about Blithe Hollow and the poltergeist girl?”

“Oh. So you know about the ghost thing already?” Sandra asked in mild astonishment.

“Yeah! And I think it’s freakin’ cool!”

“That’s one word for it . . .” Perry muttered. He had discovered that steamed broccoli put him in a bad mood. Then he discovered that Sandra was willing to kick him under the table. Hard.

“I’m very glad you understand that, Dipper. Not many people appreciate Norman’s special gift,” Sandra said.

“And I don’t get why!” Dipper asserted.

“Most people think it’s weird when someone starts talking to invisible people,” Perry said, as if he could not understand why this wasn’t obvious. “Especially in public.” That statement earned him a kick in private. “There’s a time and a place for such things, that’s all I’m saying, Norm.”

“But think how good an investigator he could be—all the witnesses only he can talk to! It’ll be so useful investigating all the paranormal stuff that goes on around Gravity Falls. I wish _I_ could see ghosts,” Dipper concluded vehemently.

“What kind of paranormal things?”

“Oh, all sorts. The lake monster, the government conspiracy about the town’s alleged founder, the—ow.” Dipper looked over at Norman, who was trying to nonchalantly eat some food while kicking Dipper under the table to shut up.

“Is this what your hike was about?” Sandra inquired.

“We couldn’t actually do it today, so we will tomorrow. If the weather clears up, that is.”

Courtney clicked a button, then read, “Forecast says sunny.”

“Sweet! Then we can go up—ow.”

“Up and _into_ _the_ _woods_,” Norman finished for him. “Just into the woods. Probably not far beyond the river. Right?”

“Er, _yeah_. But there’s a lot to see, so it’ll probably take all day,” Dipper stipulated cleverly.

“I’ll pack you boys a lunch then,” Sandra offered graciously.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense. I’d love to. Can’t have you boys going hungry on your adventure,” she insisted.

“Well . . . My Gruncle Stan says never to turn down free food. So thank you, Missus Babcock.”

“Gruncle?” Perry repeated.

“Great Uncle,” Dipper explained. “My sister and I . . . We live with him in the Mystery Shack.”

“That place outside of town? How . . . um . . . _cabiny_.” Perry eyed the behatted boy. He was thinking that this might explain a lot. Then he was thinking about the growing bruises on his shin.

“What do you boys plan to investigate in the woods?” Sandra asked affably.

Thinking fast, Dipper answered vaguely, “Ghosts. Just normal ghosts. But I can’t do much alone. Norman’s expertise will be really valuable.”

{He certainly seems to be a fan of you,} Elaine said encouragingly to her grandson.

“Y-yeah. Me, too. S-sorry, just answering Grandma,” the boy Medium explained. “Um . . . I think we’ve both finished now. May we be excused? We’re gonna go watch a movie.”

“Clear your places first,” Perry responded.

“Never mind that,” Sandra intervened. “I’ll take care of them. You two go have fun.”

Once the boys had departed, Perry grumbled indistinctly about “bad habits”.

“He has a friend over,” Sandra stated quietly. “For the first time since . . . since Neil, he’s smiling. Let them be, dear.”

“The boy found a weird friend though, didn’t he?”

“_Perry_ . . .”

“Sorry. Dipper found a weird friend though, didn’t he?”

Sandra shook her head disappointedly. She knew it had just been a joke, but it broke her heart that her husband would even make it.

****

Stumbling out of her car, the woman who was no longer middle-aged slurred in Spanish, “Brewing a bean twice . . . Second time seems to half its potency . . . Good to know . . .”

Lugging her meager luggage behind her, it clicked in her tired brain why Anglophones refer to it as “luggage”. The brain is like that sometimes, making bizarre and theoretically obvious breakthroughs just when it is on the verge of running out of power. This is, incidentally, how roller skates, white out, chairs, cup holders, all of Newton’s Laws, facebook, wigs, and the original iPod (known colloquially as “the King commandeth that we musicians follow apace, making sweet music as we walk, to accompany his right royal . . . ahem . . . wenchings”) were invented.

The hotel’s automatic doors slid open before her. She stumbled through the empty lobby and practically collapsed onto the bell at the reception desk.

The ring soon summoned the concierge. “Yes, ma’am? How can I help you?”

The woman who was no longer middle-aged didn’t raise her head.

The concierge leaned closer. “Ma’am?”

It wasn’t so much a sound like “zzzz” that she made, but a sound like “ssss”. Just as Anglophones often have phonetic trouble rolling their R-sounds (or Francophones have trouble with TH-sounds), Hispanics often have trouble making the voiced alveolar sibilant—known more widely as the Z-sound.

The concierge had never studied phonetics, however, and took no notice of this linguistic gem. More’s the pity. Instead, the concierge tapped her shoulder lightly. “Ma’am?”

She bolted upright. “Quéieres?”

“Um . . . Are you looking for a room, ma’am?”

“Oh. Yes. eSorry. A room, please,” she replied in English.

“We have some vacancies in our ‘oceanview’ suites. They include balconies at no extra cost now that the tourist season has wound down.”

From her luggage, the woman who was no longer middle-aged extracted a thick stack of cash. When dropped on the counter, it made an appreciable thud. A beautiful thud, really.

“I will take the most espensive room you have. And your complete discreción. If I am esatisfied with both, when I leave there will be a amigo to keep this one company.”

Sweeping the money out of sight, the concierge said, “Welcome to the Repose Inn, Missus . . . _Tavish_. No one looks twice at a Tavish, I find.”

“I will remember that.”

Entering the information into the computer, the concierge asked, “How long will we have the pleasure of your company? Will you be staying with us long?”

“Only until I decide to leave.”

“Reservation for three days, then. Least conspicuous kind, I find. We can extend it, if necessary. Will you require maid service during your stay?”

“No, though I may request a—how do you esay? The thing to carry all the cleaning equipment?”

“A . . . cart? A trolley?”

“Si, I think eso.”

“As you wish, Missus Tavish. I will _personally_ and _discreetly_ see that all your needs are met.”

“Gracias. My key?”

“You are in the room #701. Our presidential suite. Shall I assist you with your bags?”

“No, gracias. Buenas noches,” she said, stumbling towards the elevator.

Upon reaching her room, her first acts included hanging the “do not disturb” sign, fastening all the locks, and (though exhausted) wedging the entryway with a couch and a table; both would have to be destroyed before the door could possibly open now. Then, she turned and surveyed the lavish room.

With a sigh, she slurred in Spanish, “Merely immaculate. How to sleep in this mess?”

Resolving to order a cart of cleaning products, she reached towards the room phone and crashed onto the floor. All of her energy was spent. The only sign that she was still alive was the faint sound like “ssss” she made.

****

“You’re s-sure you don’t wanna watch another one?”

“I probably gotta get home,” Dipper declined reluctantly. “It _is_ after nine . . .”

“Wanna ride? I c-could ask D—Mom or Courtney to drop you off,” Norman corrected his offer.

“Thanks, but I don’t wanna trouble them. I mean, it’s not even that far to walk.”

Opening the door for Dipper, Norman looked out into the gloomy evening. The rain, though diminished, had not abated. “Hard to believe it’s gonna clear up. You wanna b-borrow an umbrella?” And, before Dipper could decline, Norman withdrew one from the closet. “You can just bring it back with you t-tomorrow, right?”

“Sure. Thanks, man.”

As the behatted boy accepted the umbrella, his hand brushed against Norman’s. There was nothing intentional in this—certainly nothing significant as far as Dipper was concerned; yet a spark seemed to run up Norman’s arm and surge through the rest of his body. His heart skipped a beat while his breath tripped in his chest. His stomach did somersaults while his limbs felt like they faceplanted.

“See you tomorrow!” Dipper said as he stepped out into the rain.

Norman’s head was swimming. He knew he needed to say something witty and nonchalant (something cool) but he couldn’t think straight! Worse still, his tongue felt like a brick in his mouth! Anything—he’d settle for the ability to say anything at all, but he couldn’t!

Raising the umbrella over his head, the behatted boy said, “I’ll come over as soon as I can.”

Panic began to set in: Dipper was going to notice how weird he was being! Notice him staring! Norman could feel the blushing heat rise up towards his face! Preemptive blushing! No!

Survival instinct took over. A squeak from within his chest “Y-yeah . . .” Pushing the door closed. Then the crisis was averted; Norman was out of danger. He leaned against the door with a sigh of relief, but also . . . not relief?

Suddenly, there was Elaine, popping through the wall like a grandmaternal jack-in-the-box.

“Wha!” Her grandson spazzed into the corner. “H-_hey_, Grandma.”

{You look like you had fun,} she said perkily.

“Y-yeah.”

{Would you like to talk about it?}

“N-no,” he stammered. “Because, I m-mean, what’s there to talk about? We played video games and we watched a movie.” Slinking against the wall, he slid past her awkwardly. “I’m er kinda tired now. Yeah. T-tired. So I’m gonna go to bed, okay? Okay. G’night, Grandma.”

Elaine resisted the urge to ask, {So it will be tomorrow sooner?} Instead, she smiled to herself; she had been absolutely right, it seemed. {Goodnight, Normy,} she called as he fled upstairs to his room.

Meanwhile, Dipper strode through the rain. Not that he was particularly eager to be home. Hope for a warm welcome from his sister was a commodity he had in low in supply. But it didn’t matter.

“Things are . . . They’re going _well_,” he reassured himself. “This time tomorrow, Sunday morning at the latest, everything will be okay again . . . Mabel will be back to her usual self, and I’ll . . . I’ll have my sister back—that’s what’s important—and a new friend, too. Which is really cool. It’ll be just like . . . just like everything was before . . . Be like Summer break all year round, except better in some ways, because now I’ve got a friend, too. I just . . . need to do everything so that he doesn’t feel like I used him. I’m _not_,” he said hastily, even guiltily. “Because he is cool and I really wanna be friends, even if . . . if . . . Don’t think about the if,” he ordered himself. “Just . . . Just have him come over, and maybe just ask if there are any ghosts in the Shack. Yeah. And if so . . . explain everything to him then. _They’ll_ help. Everything’ll be okay; he’ll understand. And if not . . . if not . . . Don’t think about the if . . .”

On that note, Dipper stopped beside a trashcan and dumped his observations into them.

“Don’t want these floating around, being discovered at a crucial moment. No predictable tropes ruining my friendship. No sir.”

He was about to continue on, then he realized how much even this was tempting fate. After digging his observations back out, he carefully shredded them. For good measure, he tossed half back into the trashcan, and threw the other half straight down into the sewers.

“That should do it. Probably . . .”

He dug the other half back out and threw it straight down into the sewers, too.

The Mystery Shack was quiet when he returned, with Stan dozing in his chair. “Wha? Huh? Wasn’t waiting for you,” Stan gruffed at the sight of him. “Just fell asleep. Because I’m old.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Dipper played along.

“Keep it that way,” Stan groaned as he popped his lower back.

“How’s Mabel? Any better?”

“No. I tried talking to her, by the way. She wouldn’t tell me what’s got her so steamed at you.”

Heaving a sigh, Dipper muttered, “Well, not like I really wanted to sleep in a bed anyway . . . Hey, uh . . . I was kinda hoping to go for a hike with my friend tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“I suppose. I’m hoping for a good amount of rubes to fleece, but the way this week’s been . . . Well, let’s just say I’m not holding my breath. Soos, Mabel, and I can manage. Maybe I can even get her to talk to me about hings . . .”

“Thanks, Gruncle Stan. G’night. Love ya.”

Grumbling, “Yeah yeah, g’night, love ya too,” Stan shambled out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

“When he was in kindergarten, he convinced everyone we had a pet kangaroo in the basement. Even the teacher. That’s why Perry’s sister still calls him ‘Roo’ sometimes.”

This was a nightmare! The most horrible thing imaginable: they were telling Dipper _baby_ _stories_!

Panicked. “What are you doing here?!”

“Eating blueberry pie,” the boy with milk chocolate eyes and milk chocolate hair replied simply.

“We’re supposed to be hiking!”

An umbrella was produced. “I had to return this first.”

{He did. Looks like rain,} Grandma warned them.

Dipper opened the umbrella, held it over himself. “We can share it.”

Under the umbrella, glowing sunlight. Rain and cold outside, but warmth and Dipper inside.

“C’mon, man. We’re gonna miss our hike.”

But Norman was so anxious, he couldn’t move. Everyone was watching. And what if Dipper didn’t really mean what he said? “W-we need to find Detoby first.”

“Follow me.”

Dipper walked out of the house and into the arcade, and Norman had to run not to lose him. But Detoby wasn’t there. Dipper walked out of the arcade and into the school, and Norman could barely keep up. The rain and the cold slowed him down.

Detoby wasn’t there either.

“Can’t you keep up?”

“You’re in the sunbrella, and I’m all alone out here in the rain!”

“I’m offering to share it.”

Norman didn’t move. He was unable to move. He was afraid to move.

“Don’t you want to share it?”

“Y-yes . . . but I—”

“So we should share it.”

Dipper stepped next to him. The umbrella poured sunlight over them both. Almost blindingly. Every part of him was warm all of a sudden. Like the rain had never fallen. Like the cold had never been. Warmer than Norman had ever dared hope.

{He can’t hold it up for both of you.}

Detoby was sitting at the bar with Hiya Kitten. Poured three fingers of milk for her.

“Why is she here? She’s too young to drink.”

{Don’t you remember? The rain and the cold are still outside her little speakeasy. So you have to hold it up, too.}

“What’s wrong with your face?”

The Jokergeist looked different. Like it wasn’t actually him, but someone wearing a costume—someone with a taller hat, a darker tie, thinner limbs, a smaller head, and a wider body. Someone with an extremely focused gaze. A gaze you couldn’t meet for long, because it stared through you.

{If you don’t help to hold up your ‘sunbrella’, it cannot keep the rain and the cold at bay.}

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

Was it even a voice? Was he hearing it like he heard people and ghosts? Or was it like a thought someone else was having in his mind? Something wasn’t right here.

{Listen to me, Child of Spirits and Words. This is important.}

“You’re not Detoby, are you? That’s not Detoby’s voice.”

{Do not listen to how I speak. Listen to what I say, for there’s little time. Hold up your ‘sunbrella’ or you will both be lost—you will _all_ be lost.}

“Lost?” Norman looked at Dipper. The thought made him start to panic.

{Hold up your ‘sunbrella’. Do it.}

Norman laid a hand over Dipper’s, and a spark jolted through his body.

Jolted him upright in bed.

Covering his eyes, Norman blinked at the early morning sunlight streaming into his room. Then he peered at his alarm clock. It was a little after seven . . . and he had a vague sense that there was something not right about that. Something that was supposed to have happened, but hadn’t?

Whatever it was, his sleep-muddled brain wasn’t piecing it together, so he lay back stiffly again. “Least there was no weird kiss this time . . .” he said in mild relief. Then he reconsidered that sentiment. “Wait . . . _Dang_ it.”

****

There was no home, no Piedmont, no Gravity Falls, and no Mystery Shack.

No Mom and Dad.

No Gruncle Stan. No Soos or Wendy. No Candy and Grenda.

There was no Dipper.

There was only Mabel in this cold world. Alone. So alone.

**LONELINESS**

And the door with the plaque that read “#13”. There was only Mabel and the door.

**NEVER AGAIN**

Like an old friend that knew she would always come back to it. It could wait for her. Wait for when she was ready. Unlike everyone else. Always pushing and pulling or leaving her behind. The door wouldn’t do that to her. The door would wait for her to come to it.

**OPEN**

Mabel stepped closer. And then stopped.

“But, wait . . . This is stupid. The door’s just a door. A thing. It isn’t waiting for me . . . It isn’t waiting for anyone, because it can’t wait or feel or—”

**OPEN**

The voice, then. The voice was waiting for her like an old friend. Not pushing or pulling or—

“But it does . . . It keeps telling me to open the door, and it won’t tell me why.”

**LONELINESS**

But it can’t. Didn’t she remember? It needs her help. It couldn’t open the door itself.

“But . . . Yeah, I remember, but—”

**NEVER AGAIN**

Everything will be better once she opens it. Everything will be better. Everything. Better

“My . . . head hurts . . .”

**OPEN**

She could ignore it though. You need to. An old friend is waiting for her.

Mabel tried to take another step, but the ache between her eyes made it hard to focus.

Waiting for so long. Waiting for the right kind of person. Waiting for too long. Waiting for her. Waiting for long enough, and not waiting any longer.

**OPEN**

“Everything . . . will be better?” Mabel asked through the pain.

I wouldn’t lie to you. You know that. We’re like old friends, you and I.

She managed the final step. She reached for the knob—

“WHO WANTS WAFFLES?!”

“BWAH!” Mabel literally bolted out of bed, her hand scrabbling for some weapon to fend off this assault of noise, light, smells, and déjà vu! Déjà vu was assaulting her!

“Good morning, Mabel!” Candy larked brightly.

“WAFFLES!” Grenda chanted. “WAFFLES! WAFFLES!”

And, at the foot of Mabel’s bed, Waddles grunted something that was definitely “waffles”. There was no doubt whatsoever that he was grunting “waffles”.

“We have brought you breakfast again! We will make sure you have a good day this time!”

Mabel rubbed her temples angrily. “You guys, I said I wanted to be left alone today.”

“And we’ll make sure you are!” Grenda asserted. “No one’s gonna ruin our alone day together!”

Exhaling heavily, Mabel growled, “Please stop yelling. I’ve got a killer headache . . .”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“And you woke me up before I could finally see what’s behind that door . . .”

“Er. What door?” Candy asked.

“The door that’s . . . Never mind,” Mabel dismissed it all with a curt wave. “Just a stupid dream. Barely remember it now anyway.”

“Well then, we’ll get straight down to the business of breakfast!” Grenda cheered.

Mabel winced.

“Sorry. The business of breakfast!” Grenda whispered.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Not even a little?” Candy wheedled.

“No.”

“But I made you waffles!” Grenda protested. “Carried my waffleiron all the way from home and everything! So you could have the best breakfast ever: waffles and Sir Syrup!”

Mabel winced again. “What’s so great about waffles? They’re just . . . conformist pancakes.”

“They are light and fluffy, and they facilitate an even distribution of syrup,” Candy replied.

“Okay, so they’re communist pancakes. The point is I’m not hungry.”

Grenda deflated visibly. “But . . . waffles . . . for you . . .”

Squaring her shoulders determinedly, Candy opened her mouth to speak. But when she saw Mabel’s glaring, bloodshot, sunken eyes, the determination in her wilted. “Mabel,” she said gently. “When was . . . You barely ever eat. You need to eat something, or you will get sick.”

Pressing hard into her temples, Mabel demanded through gritted teeth, “Why do you all keep trying to force food on me? I’m not hungry; I don’t want food. I just want to be left alone! And for this stupid headache to go away!”

“Should I go ask Mister Pines for some headache medicine?” Grenda offered.

“Yes!” Mabel snapped, before adding in a softened tone, “please . . . Sorry . . . Maybe give the waffles to Dipper? He’ll like them, maybe.”

“But Dipper’s—”

Candy shot a look at Grenda, and the larger girl clapped a hand to her mouth.

Mabel looked up and scowled. “Dipper’s what? Already gone? Well, big surprise there . . .”

****

When the phone rang, it rang like a church bell—a single carillon reverberating in the heavy air. A death knell, the kind which accompanies a funeral procession. It was an appropriate ringtone.

“Si?”

The man who answered the phone had hard, sharp features. Like a knife. The generous in spirit might have called them “aquiline features”, but he tended to frighten away the generous in spirit. Jutting forward below a narrow, balding skull and large, bright eyes, he appeared attentively curious and perpetually menacing. He looked exactly as if he was contemplating the major blood vessels of the body so as to pick the one which would bleed out slowest.

However, it would be unjust to ascribe such thoughts to him; he was too much of a professional to care about inflicting _painful_ death. That was his partner’s role; his partner was the artiste.

“I have troubling news about una amiga mutua,” a voice answered in Spanish. The tone made it unequivocal that this was not good news. “One I thought we could . . . count on.”

“Si?”

“She has decided to take an unscheduled vacation. I worry this might jeopardize her career, especially since she forgot to leave some files at work before leaving. Nothing too serious; perhaps fifty or so. But she also forgot to return _my_ _bag_ before she left, and I was planning to gift it to someone. Small things, but this someone is so looking forward to receiving my bag. A vexing situation, no?”

“Si.”

“I seem to have misplaced her number. Could I ask you to . . . contact her? Perhaps you could convince her to come back and apologize. What really matters is that she send back the files _in_ _my_ _bag_. Can you do this for me?”

“Si.”

“You are sure? She might not be amenable to cancelling her vacation, and she might even have had . . . a little too much to drink. This will be difficult, I think. Even for you.”

Silence (perhaps offended silence) followed from the man with hard, sharp features like a knife. It should be obvious that he was the kind of man one tries very hard not to offend.

“Hola? Are you still there?”

“Si. You remember what my friends call me?” he asked quietly. Pointedly. “And why?”

“Naturalmente. We say you have a nose for this. But—”

“Si. I will convince her to return. But you will owe me _two_ _drinks_ next time.”

A hesitation, then the voice acquiesced, “Bueno. Gracias . . . and adios.”

“Si.” The man terminated the phone call. He never hung up on them; he terminated them.

Lengthy, lanky limbs unfolded from the man’s ergonomic chair and resplendent old-world desk, and he crossed the airy room that comprised the majority of his office/flat. It was like an art museum vaunting his private collection, for every single one of the large and well-lit windows in this long gallery cast intense sunlight on a driftwood sculpture. Somehow, artists had tangled together pieces of wood (treated only by the forces of nature: wind, weather, and water) into these masterpieces that were free from the tyranny of background, color, and definition. They were like sketches made solid, and thusly they possessed all the potentiality of movement and meaning which an “unfinished” sketch does.

There was a horse as large as a clydesdale and as unfettered as a mustang. There was a siren, swimming forever as she sang her songs. There was a king on a throne, bending beneath his crown. There was an elephant that reared up on its hind legs. There was a three-masted ship in full sail. And, crown jewel of the collection, there was a condor with wings outstretched. That one had necessitated being suspended from the ceiling by invisible wires, so that it soared forever. As it was meant to do.

Now he entered another room, a studio filled with the pungently pleasing odor of acrylic paints and the pungently intolerable sounds of tango music. The man’s lip curled. He stormed to the CD player that dared emit such offensive music, and ripped the CD in question from it.

“Ehehehehehe!”

The man with hard, sharp features glared at his polar opposite—a man with soft, round features above a body that also appeared soft and round. In point of fact, the round man was far from soft, though his body-type (short and round like a medicine ball) belied his mass of muscles. And his sadistic sense of humor.

The first man strode to a window of their sprawling penthouse, opened it, and flung the CD into the skyline. Then, quick as lightning, he drew a handgun, aimed, and fired once. The CD sparkled as it exploded and fell to the street hundreds of feet below.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. A very _funny_ game,” the man with hard, sharp features growled at his partner in Spanish. “How many times must I tell you that tango music is the tool of the devil? And accordions . . .” the man actually shuddered. “The . . . toolbox of the devil. Perhaps the jukebox of the devil.”

“Ehehehehehe!” The soft, round man went back to his painting.

“Si. I understand that it is irrational to hate them,” the man with hard, sharp features answered. “But . . . It is like your thing with sock puppets. Rationale does not factor in.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. What you have is most definitely a _thing_,” he asserted. “And worse than my thing. At least an accordion actually did me harm as a child. Killed my father. Before I could kill him.”

The soft, round man dabbed some paint on the canvas. “Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. We have a new job. Are you near a point when you can stop?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. I will explain while you work. Do you remember la Contable? It seems that she has stolen fifty million U.S. dollars from El Cartel and fled.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. I agree. Fifty million is nothing to El Cartel. But sometimes it is the principal that matters; allow one person to steal from you, and soon every person will steal from you. And fifty million here, another fifty million there . . . It adds up, and soon you are talking about real money.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. She is clever, and so there will be no record to trace. The numbers will be in her head alone, gone forever if we do not bring it back. But that is of little consequence compared to her other theft . . . She dared to steal a bag of _los_ _Granos_ _Dorados_.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. Unbelievable.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

The man with hard, sharp features nodded admiringly. “Si. You are always so incisive, mi amigo. She likely has used one already. Given her native intelligence _without_ a brew, she will doubtless have covered her tacks so perfectly _with_ _one_ that it _would_ be impossible to find her using _normal_ means . . .”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. Exactamente. We must therefore use paranormal means. Are you ready now?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. I will give you my opinion.”

The man with hard, sharp features walked around the canvas to examine his partner’s work. Vivid colors had been used to depict a scene of true havoc: a fruit stand was overturned and in splinters, the produce it had held was reduced to brightly colored goo (which looked almost good enough to eat), though parts of it appeared charred as from a bomb blast; the grocer’s leg was just visible in the frame, for the painting was actually a close-up of a puppy in the center of the mayhem. This puppy looked up at the viewer with innocent eyes—eyes that said, “Who? Me?”—even though its paw was still resting on a remote detonator.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. It is very good. I see you have moved on to the basset hound . . . A new series?”

This comment made reference to the other paintings hanging on the walls of the studio, for they also depicted innocent looking puppies at the center of carnage. Among them were sets of series featuring a particular puppy in similar scenarios (such as the newfoundland puppy holding a switchblade in its mouth, with various parts of various victims just barely visible around it, or the corgi holding a bit of rope tied into a noose).

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. I like it. But have you ever considered trying a different style? Impressionism, perhaps? Cubism? Or pointillism? Something . . . new and different to expand your syltistic repertoire?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

The man with hard, sharp features shrugged. “Si. I suppose I cannot argue with that logic . . . Finished, then? Shall we begin our search?”

The soft, round man drew a circle on the ground that was exactly seven feet in diameter, then used a compass to delineate the four cardinal directions. Meanwhile, the man with hard, sharp features pulled from his breast pocket a deck of gilded tarot cards—the legendary ‘Deck of Providence’ that had belonged to the infamous Jean-Pierre Tarotatine himself. Removing the Death Card (for it was certain) to make the deck number seventy-seven, he shuffled the deck seven times.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. I am ready.”

The man with hard, sharp features took a long step, so that he stood in the center of the circle. From there, he held the deck directly over his bald head and launched all seventy-seven cards in the air. Gold and colors rained down around him—countless single eyes winking as they fell.

All the cards had landed in the northern half of the circle. Every single one. And they had made a shape not unlike a figure seven. Now, ignoring the gilded eyes and triangles of those cards which were face-down, the man with hard, sharp features examined those that had landed face-up.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. Destiny, he continues to be sporadic in what he reveals . . . He reveals that she has travelled northeast by commercial airplane . . . first class. Seat 3-B. She had pasta and a ginger cookie to eat . . . She landed in Atlanta, but continued in a newish car (a 2009 model) further northeast . . . to Virginia. She has taken a new name. ‘Juanita’ or ‘Jacinta’—something with a ‘J’. She slept for exactly nine hours and forty-six minutes at a motel with the word ‘moon’ in its name, breakfasted on a chocolate blintz, and . . . she went west. To the ocean. She has indeed brewed one of los Granos Dorados.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. That is all for now. We must go where she has gone, and it will become clearer. Pack your bags for America, mi amigo, and I shall go call El Cartel to make the necessary arrangements.”

****

“I’m dressed! You can come in now!” Norman called.

With that permission, Elaine and Detoby both drifted through the door.

“How do I, er, look?”

In spite of herself, Elaine’s lips curled upward. {You’re going for a hike. Why does it matter?}

“Um. W-well . . .” Norman began to blush. “No one likes to look s-sloppy, do they?”

The Jokergeist’s head bobbed in agreement. {True. True. Why do you think I wear these knickerbockers?}

{Ha! Oh . . . That wasn’t a joke, was it?}

{Hmph. Knickerbockers are the height of fashion. They are ‘cool’, as the kids now say.}

“Guys! Can we focus, please?”

{Normy dear, you’re wearing jeans and your favorite red hoodie,} Elaine pointed out indulgently. {You look like you _always_ do.}

“Should I, like, do s-something with . . . W-what about my hair?”

Before either could answer, however, the doorbell rang.

“He’s here!” Norman exclaimed squeakily. And suddenly he wasn’t sure if he felt like jumping up or throwing up.

{Well, let’s go!} Detoby said, starting out the room without him.

“Y-yeah . . .” But Norman was rooted to the spot.

Elaine tried to give her grandson an encouraging little push—a gesture which served its emotional purpose if not its physical one, for he shuffled nervously forward. {Just be confident, Normy.}

“C-confident. Yeah. Confident.” And he stumbled out the door.

Alone for a moment, Elaine chuckled to herself. {Worrying about how his hair looks . . . Poor kid really does got it worse than I thought . . .} Then she drifted down through the floor.

It was Perry who reached the door first, and he yelled, “NORMAN!” over his shoulder when he saw it was the behatted boy from the day before. “YOUR FRIEND’S HERE!”

“C-coming!” Norman shouted as he scurried down the stairs and across the front room.

“Hey, man!” Dipper called, waving the umbrella.

“Hey, Dipper,” Norman said as coolly and confidently nonchalant as he could. “You ready to—”

He tripped and fell on his face.

It should be understood that there wasn’t actually anything to trip upon between the stairs and the door—no lumpy rugs, no jutting furniture, no discarded shoes or clothing. Nothing at all. However, there are certain laws of the universe which unfeelingly dictate that any awkward young boy attempting to impress a person by affecting cool and confident nonchalance will trip in front of said person (before blushing profusely), and none of them can be forestalled by anything so mundane as logic or reason; if this scene between Norman and Dipper had transpired while floating in zero gravity, Norman still would have tripped. It should (by extension) be understood that the laws of the universe are really big jerks. Reality (biggest of jerks) expresses itself through them, after all.

Floating over him, Detoby asked, {You ok—}

“I’m okay!” Norman insisted, bounding back up. He was blushing profusely. “Let’s go!”

“Just need to put your umbrella back first.”

Norman stared at it.

Perry looked askance down at his son. “Something wrong?”

“Just . . . I think I dreamed about that umbrella last night . . .” his son answered vaguely. “Something . . . weird, y’know?”

“Yes, I know weird,” Perry muttered under his breath.

“Good dream?” Dipper asked, slipping it into the closet of his own initiative.

“Y-yeah. I mean . . . I don’t really r-remember any of it, but . . . um . . . Shall we go?”

“We shall!”

“No, you shan’t!” Sandra called from the kitchen.

Dipper winced, to Norman’s bemusement.

“You haven’t got your lunches yet!” And, swinging a paper sack in each hand, she emerged from the kitchen. “Do you boys have enough water, too? Sunscreen? Mosquito repellant?”

“_Mom_ . . .” Norman groaned.

“Yes, we do, Missus Babcock. And thanks for the lunches,” Dipper responded graciously.

“You’re very welcome. You two have fun. Be safe.”

“Watch out for mountain lions,” Perry added semi-sarcastically.

{We shall indeed,} Detoby proclaimed.

“Mountain lions? Please,” Dipper said in an undertone to Norman. “The Manotaurs keep most of them away. I’d be more worried about running into one of them—it’d be awkward for us.”

“R-right,” Norman answered. “Bye, Mom! Dad. See you this afternoon!”

{And the stampede of bull begins,} the Jokergeist quipped as the two boys charged out the door. {You sure you don’t want to accompany us, Elaine? The stories sound like they’ll be first class dirigibles. Gas up to your eyeballs.}

Elaine grimaced. {What a charming way to ask someone out.}

{Not as a date. Just as a nature walk. Of, course, if you want me to ask you out on a date . . .}

{Hmm. Nature or my stories?} As if weighing their merits in her hands, she continued, {Dirt, sweat, bugs, and you on the one hand, or the love triangle between Doctor Joanne Soltree, Hospital Lawyer Miguel Secsito, and undercover French spy Philippe Somptueur? Tempting as your offer is—}

{But you can’t get dirty, sweaty, or bitten by bugs,} Detoby countered helpfully.

{Still no sale. Besides, I personally prefer my unbelievable stories to involve a lot more passion. And, so help me, Detoby,} she added preemptively, {if you say anything remotely akin to ‘I can make that happen’, you will float with a _limp_.}

{Yes, ma’am.}

{They’ve left without you. Better hurry. And watch out for them.}

{And yes, ma’am! Off I scram!}

****

It wasn’t the chill of sleeping without a blanket which woke the woman who was no longer middle-aged, nor was it the rigidness of the floor (though it had left her painfully stiff). It was the warm wetness of her own drool against her face which set off alarms in her nigh comatose head.

Wet . . . plus warm . . . equals . . . IDEAL PATHOGEN VECTOR! AGAINST THE FACE! RED ALERT! REDALERTREDALERTREDALERT!

She spasmed off the ground and into semi-consciousness (just enough to realize her panic wasn’t a dream, but not enough to calm herself—though, to be fair, she probably never would; decades after the fact, a part of her would still probably be panicking due to this). “Shoes and feet! Dirty shoes and dirty feet! Against the carpet! Against my face! Walking over unspeakable things! Sticking them in my face! AY! I can taste them in my mouth!”

She staggered into the bathroom and found it woefully ill-equipped: no industrial barrel of rubbing alcohol! Just a micro-bottle of complementary mouthwash! Still, she swished it as she staggered to the minibar. This was no desperate attempt to cauterize the brain cells infected by the horror of this moment (for alcohol is literally a poison, and why would she want to replace pathogens with poisons?!); in her sleep-addled mind, she was considering its use as an accelerant to burn the germs from her face.

Eventually, the woman who was no longer middle-aged calmed down enough to formulate a rational solution to her dilemma: she would simply call room service and order enough rubbing alcohol to bathe in. And a carpet cleaner for afterwards. And a blintz for breakfast.

So this was actually turning out to be her most relaxing vacation ever.

“I could . . . rest here for a few days,” she mused to herself in Spanish. With the tips of her toes, she tested the tubful of rubbing alcohol. It felt like searing. Perfecto. She slipped into it with a long sigh. “No money trail, no identity trail, no obvious moves . . . Surely I’ve shaken them for a while . . . Not even the best could find me here . . .”

****

A shadow crept around the Mystery Shack, looking furtively in windows. Then it fled back to the protective cover of the woods, where four other shadows waited. “Seh ith heir, Yo Gwan Gothnuth!”

With a sigh, the central shadow (the deposed Grand Goth) ordered, “Keeper of the Precepts, translate.”

This new Keeper of the Precepts (an anemic girl with a penchant for gum), said, “The Proselyte like says . . . Like ‘see his hair’. I think.”

“Whose hair? Why?”

“Nah!” the Proselyte (formerly the Catechumen, formerly the Acolyte) insisted. “Seh! Duh _guul_!”

“Oh. I guess that was like silly of me. The Proselyte says ‘she is hair’.”

“Nah!”

One of the other three stepped forward. “Excuse me, Your Grand Gothness, but the Proselyte actually said that she’s there. In the Shack.”

“_Yeth_!”

The deposed Grand Goth eyed the new speaker. “You speak the Studded Tongue? Then _you_ are the Keeper of the Precepts henceforth. Claim your cloak.”

“But like what about me?!” the now former new Keeper of the Precepts protested.

“You can return to being . . . What _did_ I make you?” the deposed Grand Goth asked absently. “An Abbess of the Abyss? Reclaim that rank.”

Sulking, she crossed her fishnet arms. “This like _sucks_.”

“Remember that your faithfulness will be rewarded when we reclaim what is mine. You shall all be Prelates of the Consortium.”

“How are we like supposed to get the Umbral Umbrella back for you? It’s like _broken_. Besides,” she continued bitterly. “There’re even _less_ of us here than yesterday.”

“Pay no heed to the infidels! They shall be cast into the light for their treachery!” the deposed Grand Goth raged. “Focus only on the task at hand! Revealing this Pretender for the poseur that she is! Now, faithful Proselyte,” which was said with a visible effort to calm down. “Where is she exactly?”

“Gith tho.”

“That would be the gift shop, Your Grand Gothness,” the new new Keeper of the Precepts explained, adjusting the newly-acquired cloak.

“Then let us sally forth to dark glory. You are all ready to record when I abase her?”

“Yes, Your Grand Gothness,” they replied as one, pulling iphones from their pockets.

The five shadows advanced like teenage Nazgul, their march unimpeded by the “Welcome (and NO REFUNDS)” signs. Meager defenses. A bell tolled, announcing them as they breached the threshold. Candy and Grenda looked up. Their eyes were wide with what the deposed Grand Goth chose to interpret as fear. Pitiful mortals, light pawns in this game of chess between darkness and light. 

Mabel, however, merely looked annoyed. That was the only word for it. “What do _you_ want?”

“I see you still have the audacity to wrap yourself in these ill-got, ill-made trappings, poseur.”

“I like the look.”

“We often covet what we have no right to touch.”

“Who said I don’t have the right?” Mabel countered.

“I do! As Grand Goth of the Gravity Falls Consortium! And, in the name of my office, I am come to strike you do—”

Light and smoke in a flash to blind the eyes!

And Stan stood in the middle of the room.

“New customers, I see. Welcome to the Mystery Shack!”

Waving away the smoke, the deposed Grand Goth snarled, “We are not here for your sideshow, old man! We have business with this Pretender!”

“The ‘Pretender’ is currently the gift shop cashier, and not on break,” Stan pointed out suavely. “You’ll have to take the tour before you’re allowed in here. Mystery Shack policy, you see. Please step this way and PREPARE to be AMAZED by countless wonders and befuddlements!”

It was like being caught in a current. The goths found themselves drawn irresistibly after him. Had not the deposed Grand Goth blocked the doorway, they might have been swept out of the shop before they even realized they were moving.

“We have no interest in your tour of _fakery_!”

“Really? Not even to discover _how_ Mabel seized control of you goths?”

“No, not even to—what?”

Stan smiled enigmatically. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? I mean, she’s only thirteen and has never been a goth before this week. How’d she manage to take over so quickly? What’s her secret (that ANYONE could use to make themselves the great goth in only SEVEN DAYS)?”

“There is none!”

But the other four were listening and spellbound.

“So she just took over by accident? Were you really such a weak leader that a little girl could just walk right up and topple you by accident? Because, unless there actually is a secret to supreme gothness in this very museum (that anyone can master, so why not you?), that’s _basically_ what you’re admitting.”

“I . . . Y-you . . . She . . .” the deposed Grand Goth Sputtered.

“Come discover the secrets of the most ancient goth!” Stan trumpeted. “Only ten dollars a tour! Special one-time offer for this morning only!”

And the four others swept the deposed Grand Goth forward. “No! Don’t listen!”

Grenda turned to Mabel in awe. “You never told us about the secret to supreme gothness. . .”

“Because there is no secret.”

“Oh, yeah . . . Right . . .”

Stan appeared briefly in the doorway—just long enough to set the lock (no escaping his tour) and wink (probably, though it’s hard to distinguish when a man with an eyepatch is winking or blinking) at the girls. “Money in the bank. _Finally_. First we’ve had all week.”

Candy intoned, “Your gruncle is amazing . . .”

****

Mount Immovable towered over Dipper, Norman, and Detoby—so steep and high that its peak was bare of vegetation. It was majestic and daunting, like a monarch whose stern features had been carved by countless weathered storms. And now, they intended to climb all over its face. No wonder it was frowning down at them.

Norman swallowed. “S-so . . . we’re hiking _this_?”

“Yep.”

{Coffin varnish . . .}

“All the way to the top?”

“Only about . . . four-fifths of the way up,” Dipper estimated.

{Oh, well. That makes a _huge_ difference.}

“No kidding,” Norman agreed. “Is this, um, really n-necessary?”

“I promised you proof, so you shall have proof,” Dipper said simply. “Shall we go?”

{He’s . . . he’s really not kidding about this, is he?} the Jokergeist voiced in disbelief.

Squaring his shoulders, Norman nodded. “We shall.”

“Onward and upward! Don’t worry; it’s not as hard a climb as it looks.”

{It’s _still_ hard, just not _as_ hard,} the Jokergeist quipped with a honk of his horn.

“What are you complaining about? You’re just gonna float up it . . .”

“So will we,” Dipper said encouragingly. “We just need a positive attitude.”

“Oh, is that all?” Norman retorted sarcastically. “Shall we sing while we hike, then?”

{No, we absolutely shan’t!}

“Ha!”

“What’s so funny?” Dipper inquired.

“Detoby just immediately said we absolutely shan’t—”

The behatted boy grimaced.

“—really quick. You had to hear it,” Norman conceded. “S-so, um . . . why do you make a face every time someone says ‘sh—”

“Because,” Dipper cut in quickly, “it just sounds . . . dirty.”

“Shan’t?”

“Gah! C’mon, man!”

{Shan’t sounds like a dirty word to him?}

“Yeah,” the Medium concurred. “You think sh—er, that _that_ word sounds dirty?”

“Well, just _listen_ to it,” Dipper said defensively. “That collection of sounds together . . . It’s like the S-word, only nastier-sounding.”

Grinning, Norman asked, “What about ‘shanty’?”

“Really, man? _Really_?”

“So if you’re on a boat, and the captain calls for a rousing sea shanty, you won’t join in on the rousing sea shanty? No ‘Pirate’s Life’ for you?”

“You suck, you know that?”

“What about ‘shunt’?” Norman continued. “You’ve never shunted aside . . . say, an embarrassing fact or whatever?”

“I’ll shunt your embarrassing face aside. Down a _mountain_side . . .” Dipper muttered

“No, you shan’t . . . How about ‘shint’? Or ‘shinned’, I guess.”

{Actually, I could understand not being keen on the sound of _that_ word,} Detoby inserted.

“You’ve never been shinned in a . . . a soccer game before?”

“Have you ever shut up before? Cut me some slack,” Dipper protested. “I don’t like the word because it sounds dirty and ugly. There are tons of those! Like, y’know . . . When a woman is gestating? When she’s gonna have a baby? It’s like _that_ word. The word just doesn’t sound good.”

Both the Medium and the Jokergeist stared at the behatted boy.

Finally, Norman guessed, “You mean . . . ‘pregnant’?”

“Yes! Just listen to it,” Dipper insisted. “Even the sound of it on the tongue is uncomfortable and slightly nauseating. Yeguh . . .”

{Let me get this straight. ‘Pregnant’ is on the outs for him because it sounds dirty and ugly, but ‘gestating’ isn’t?}

Norman laughed.

“Well, would _you_ want to be . . . pregnant?” Dipper forced himself to ask.

Norman continued to laugh, “G-gross, man!”

“_Exactly_!” Dipper concluded triumphantly.

{But what about ‘gestating’? Would he rather _gestate_?} the Jokergeist pressed.

“Detoby asks if you’d rather gestate? Would that be preferable to being pregnant?”

“Only _phonetically_. And only moderately at that,” Dipper conceded. “Frankly, I’d just prefer not to be female ever again. Us guys have it _sooooo_ much easier—I freely admit that; I don’t have the guts (literally) to be a woman.”

{Amen to that, brother. Sheiks before Shebas.}

“Sure, but . . .” Norman pursed his lips. “What do you mean ‘_again’_? Were you female before?”

Dipper squirmed a little. “No, but . . . my sister and I did kinda sorta . . . accidentally switch our bodies once.”

“S-seriously?”

“Yep.”

{Raspberries. Tell him we are not Sweeney.}

Norman looked at the Jokergeist. “We’re not what?”

Detoby tried a different euphemism. {Tell him to pull the other one. It makes a honking sound.}

Norman turned back to Dipper. “_Seriously_?”

The behatted boy nodded. “Yep. And that’s gonna seem _tame_ compared to what’s waiting up top for us. Just saying.”

“But _seriously_. Like ‘Freaky Friday’ and everything?” Norman pressed his friend.

“Yep. And it was horrifying—just like watching Lindsay Lohan. But also enlightening, I guess, since we both learned a lot from the experience. To consider the other’s feelings, respect their space,” Dipper recalled. “And I also learned that I should never complain about man problems around her, because I _soooooo_ got the long end of the biology stick.”

Detoby snorted. {Speaking of words that sound dirty . . .}

“Huh?” And then it clicked for the Medium. “Oh . . . Dang, that’ssshahaha! Ew!”

“What? What’s so funny?” Dipper asked obliviously.

“J-just . . . more w-words . . . that sound dirty . . .”

“Like what? C’mon, man, don’t leave me out of the ghost loop!”

“Um . . .”

{‘Moist’. That word’s just . . . gyuh. I know it’s not _dirty_,} the Jokergeist stated emphatically. {But it just sounds like it should be. So I guess I get it. I’m sorry for razzing on his jazz. ‘Muck’ is another one. Any word with ‘uck’ in it, actually. Duck. Truck. Pluck. Buck.}

The Medium transmitted that. And then he added, “The word ‘mildew’ always grosses me out.”

Dipper made a face, yet laughed. “Ew! Yeah! It even sounds all slimy! How about ‘spasmodic’? Or ‘spasm’? Or any word that ends with ‘asm’?”

Nodding thoughtfully, Norman agreed, “Yeah, I can see that. Hear that. Whatever . . . Any word that starts with that, um, A-S-sound, too.”

“Like ‘_ass_ociate’?” Dipper said slyly.

“Or ‘_ass_istant’.”

{Don’t forget ‘_as_certain’!}

“Yeah. And we could combine them,” the Medium suggested. “Increase the dirty-sounding-but-not-actually-dirty-word-ness of them together. Like, my associate’s assistant can ascertain—”

“Assiduously,” Dipper interjected.

“—can assiduously ascertain the asner—”

“Pfhaha! You mean ‘answer’?”

“—the answer,” Norman corrected himself (blushing, yet grinning). “To that question—”

{That ‘asinine question’,} Detoby inserted.

“Oh, good one. To that asinine question you just asked.”

“About asymptotes. Astronomical asymptotes! It’s a math thing,” Dipper explained.

“Arithma—wait, no,” Norman deflated. “That’s not an A-S-sound. Dang it.”

“Of course it’s not, you asinine assistant!”

“Hey! I’m at least an assiduous associate!” Norman retorted.

“Well . . . Maybe an asinine associate . . .” Dipped conceded.

With mock-sanctimoniousness, Norman declared, “It gives me so much happiness to hear you say that.”

Detoby snorted. {Happiness . . . There’s one that always surprises me is acceptable . . .}

Glancing up at him, the Medium asked, “Huh? What wrong with ‘happiness’?”

{Think about . . . um . . . the long end of the biology stick. It’s actually pretty obvious.}

Meanwhile, Dipper was considering the word, deconstructing it for meaning. “Happiness . . . Hap-ee-ness . . . Hap-een-ess . . . Ha-pee—oh my gosh!”

“What? I don’t get—” Norman actually ground to halt, his blue eyes wide. “That’s _obscene_! And we go around saying that _all_ _the_ _time_! All the _freakin’_ time! That’s not funny, Dipper!”

But the behatted boy had to lean against a rock, he was laughing so hard. “It’s hilarious!”

“I’m never gonna be able to use that word again! I’m never gonna be able to _hear_ _it_ again!”

{Don’t get your knickerbockers twisted around you, Bugaboo. It’s just a word that happens to sound like another, less socially-acceptable word. Happiness—}

“Gar! Detoby!”

{—has as wholesome a meaning as it could get.}

Dipper, while struggling to breathe, choked out, “H-hey, we all ahahagreed we’d . . . pfhahaha! That we’d rather be m-male! So I guess we’ve all already found our happi—”

“Don’t say it!”

Detboy cracked up and Dipper fell to the ground. “Happiness! Hahahahapiness! My sides!”

Trying to keep a straight face (and failing), Norman shouted, “It’s _not_ funny! That word was just _ruined_ for me! _Forever_! Stop freakin’ laughing, you idiots!”

With a visible effort, the behatted boy sat up and restrained himself. His face kept twitching, but he wasn’t in actual hysterics at the moment. “It’s o-okay, Norm. It just _sounds_ dirty. It’s still fine to use. But if . . . but if you’re still upset, you could just sit down and describe to us your unhappi—”

“You suck, you know that?”

Dipper rolled onto his side, he was laughing so hard.

With a sigh and a blush, Norman yielded, “Well, it’s not like I’ve ever used the w-word . . . ‘happiness’ to d-describe my life anyway—”

{I can’t breathe!}

“You don’t breathe, Detoby. Anyway, it’s not like this actually changes anything for me . . .”

“That’s the spirit! I guess . . .” Dipper said. “Give into peer pressure and despair.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Now just shout it out loud.”

“What? No!”

“Shout it out as loud as you can!”

“I _shan’t_!”

“C’mon! Detoby and I will do it with you!”

{Sure we will!}

“On three!” Dipper urged his friend.

“I’m not doing it.”

“C’mon! One!”

“No. Not doing it.”

“Two!”

“S_han’t_!”

“You know you want to!”

“I know that I specifically do _not_ want to!”

{C’mon! Do, Bugaboo!}

Crossing his arms stubbornly, the boy Medium declared, “I’m not letting you peer pressure me into shouting almost-obscenities from a mountain.”

“Peer pressure exists so that we don’t chicken out of ideas that are objectively awesome,” Dipper countered. “Like this one. Now shout it with me, Norm! Chant it with me like a Buddhist monk!”

“_Shan’t_!” Norman repeated obstinately and obscenely.

“You’ll say that word, and not ‘happiness’?”

“I’m not going to shout it from a mountain over a town.” Gesturing at Gravity Falls below them, Norman said, “It’s right there—literally _right_ _there_!”

“The Dalai Lama would. You holier than the Dalai Lama?” Dipper retorted with a checkmate grin. “I’ll bet he shouts ‘happiness’ at towns from mountains all the time.”

“Maybe in _Tibetan_,” Norman pointed out emphatically. “Where it probably doesn’t sound like another Tibetan word that’s dirty.”

“Naw, I’ll bet it does in Tibetan, too. But the Dalai Lama doesn’t care. He’s just cool like that.”

“Stop impugning the dignity of His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”

{You’re both boys,} Detoby broke in. {Why are you talking about llama dolls?}

Norman’s face met his palm.

“Alright, you don’t want to do it? Fine,” the behatted boy relented. “But Detoby and I, _we_ _shall_. Nay, _we_ _must_! Join in when you feel like being cool. On three, ghost man—”

{You got it!}

“Don’t,” Norman begged them.

“One . . . Two . . .”

“You guys are idiots.”

“Three! HAPPINESS!” The echo rebounded, but minus the first syllable. Dipper and Detoby both crowed with laughter. Then they did it again. “One! Two! Three! HAPPINESS!”

“Really, you guys? Really?”

“C’mon, man! This is hilarious! HAPPINESS! HAPPINESS! HAPPINESS! C’mon!”

For a moment, Norman flailed his arms against this indignity. But he eventually capitulated, “_Fine_. Just _fine_. Freakin’ _fine_. Let’s do this idiocy.”

“Great! On three,” Dipper urged. “One . . . Two . . . Three!” And he took a deep breath.

But said absolutely nothing. Neither did Detoby. Only Norman shouted out, “HAPPINESS!” Mortified, he then listened as he own voice echoed that word across the valley. Minus the first syllable. It seemed like it went on forever.

And Dipper and Detoby were both grinning triumphantly at him.

“Didn’t that feel great? Now we move onto the next word: tromboner.”

Detoby blinked. {What’s wrong with that word?}

Norman closed his eyes. He took a deep, calming breath. “I’m done with this.” Then he started hiking upward again. “You can both join me when you feel like acting your age.”

“I’m a _thirteen_-_year_-_old_ _boy_,” Dipper pointed out smugly—license for most any kind of stupidity.

{And I’m nearly thirteen _decades_. I’ve never met anyone my age, so I’m not sure what sort of behavior is age-appropriate.}

“Besides,” the behatted boy continued, “you don’t know where we’re going.”

“About four-fifths of the way up,” Norman riposted.

“Hey, man! Man, calm down, okay? Just listen to me for a sec. Okay?”

With a sign, Norman turned around.

And so did Dipper. “TROMBONER!”

The echoes came back. Minus the first syllable.

And Dipper grinned like he was the cleverest boy on Earth. The widest, cheesiest, cutest grin that Norman had ever seen.

He really should have seen it coming, but he hadn’t. And now, all he could imagine was someone going about their business below, then suddenly hearing their echoes and being scandalized. It hit him like a truck. He doubled over, nearly in tears. “B-bonohohohahahahaha! _Ohmyfreakingosh_!”

{What?} Detoby demanded. {I don’t get it. Since when is ‘boner’ a dirty word?}

Norman fell to his knees. “_Detoby_!”

{I mean, sure, no one wants to pull a boner in public—}

“Detoby! _Stop_!” Norman clutched his sides.

{What? The word ‘boner’ means blunder. Some stupid, silly mistake. What’s the big deal?}

“It d-doesn’t mean that any m-mohohohahahaha! My sides! _My_ _sides_!”

{Then what does it mean now?}

“It m-means . . . The l-long end of the biology ssssahaha! _Stick_! It’s actually p-pretty obvious!” Norman managed to gag out. And then, he collapsed back into hysterics.

{Oh. _Oh_ . . . But that was a perfectly serviceable word when I went belly up! Who ruined it?!} Detoby stated indignantly, {You’d have a night out with your bosom chums—maybe attend the theatre, have a gay, old time together—and then someone would pull a boner in front of everyone, and we’d all poke fun at it for the rest of the evening! Just have a generally gay night among generally gay friends! But not _anymore_, apparently! Why are you still laughing like an absolute bonehead?}

“G-gay! B-bonehead!” Norman choked.

“Speaking of words that sound dirty, but aren’t,” Dipper said with a laugh.

{So are all derivative words of ‘bone’ going to receive like treatment? Are you going to titter if I talk about boning up for a test or using a boning knife?}

“Oh man! I don’t even know which is worst of those!”

“Worst of what?” Dipper asked.

“Boning up for a test, using a boning knife, or titter!”

“T-_titter_?” Dipper repeated, laughing and blushing himself. “Man, how is that _not_ dirty?”

{Actually . . . I guess . . . Yeah . . .} the Jokergeist said sheepishly. {Should have seen that one.}

“It means to giggle. Like schoolgirls. Sorta like we’re doing now,” Norman pointed out.

“We t-titter like men,” Dipper tried to affirm. “Manly men.”

“Manly men who happen to titter?”

“On occasion even the manliest man enjoys a good . . . t-titter. Gar! I can’t even say it with a straight face!” Dipper cracked.

“Then you’re gonna love the word titillation, which means amusement. Shall we chant that?”

Dipper laughed. “You’re evil, Norman Babcock! Absolutely evil!”

“So that idea doesn’t titillate you? Well then, perhaps we should just continue our hike,” Norman suggested. “Should we walk single file or . . . _abreast_?”

“Freak, man! Ha! Anything would sound dirty if you say it like _that_!”

****

“This place . . . It’s incredible!” the new new Keeper of the Precepts intoned in wonder.

“Amaethun!”

“Like for real!”

“It is a monument to charlatanism!” the deposed Grand Goth huffed. “I order you all to stop being impressed by this two-bit conman!”

“Shush. You’re making us like miss the tour.”

“You _dare_ to shush _me_?!”

Stan interposed, “Hey! Mime-bo—um, gir—er . . . kid! Shut up a little. For we now come before the fabled Canopic Jar of Seth: Ancient Egyptian God of Chaos and (especially) Darkness! Reverence is required before this artifact, lest we provoke his wrath in the form of a mighty sandstorm!”

Four out of five goths agreed that it was gasp-worthy.

“And where will the sand come from?” the deposed Grand Goth demanded snarkily.

“All the way from the Sahara, where the rest of his body is mummified as punishment for an uprising he led against the Great and Good Osiris. This was thousands of years ago, you understand. Now, to bind him, his body is sealed in the _Five_-_Fold_ _Sarcophagus_ buried under the Great Pyramid, and his organs have been divided among five sacred canopic jars scattered across the globe. Were it not so, and should he come in contact again with his other body parts, he could resurrect himself and usher in the Sandocalypse!”

“Like, wow!”

“And _you_ were entrusted with safeguarding one of these apocalypse-forestalling items? _You_?” the deposed Grand Goth scoffed.

“By the High Priest Nomadubstep the Fifty-Third himself,” Stan declared soberly. “Poker buddy. We go way back. One of the only people I’ll help move for less than fifty dollars an hour.”

“Which like body parts are in this one?”

“The right half of his brain, his liver, his pancreas, most of his colon, and his left testicle.”

Four out of five goths agreed that this was both cool and gross.

“I suppose you’ve verified this for yourself?”

“I have never opened it, for to even touch it with your bare skin triggers a terrible curse. See the wall of victims!” With a flourish, he pulled back a curtain to reveal a wall of photos and documents. “Janine Josiason touched it, and suffered a scorpion sting! Franklin Freebush bumped into it, and was later mauled by jackals! George Gornet: crushed by a promotional statue at the old Egyptian theatre! Mariah Morison: bitten by a desert snake! The list goes on! Why else would we keep it behind glass? Here at the Mystery Shack, we are 100% dedicated to ensuring you don’t die of a mummy-god’s curse.”

With a haughty sneer, the deposed Grand Goth demanded, “How’d you even transport it?”

“Wearing gloves. I didn’t want to damage it. The oils in our skin are terrible for old antiquities. True story.”

“Then how exactly do you know it contains the organs you’ve listed?”

“It is clearly marked on the jar—in ancient Old Egyptian,” Stan stipulated. “We keep the part where it mentions his testicle facing the wall. Some people find it . . . objectionable.”

Dripping with disdain, the deposed Grand Goth said, “You must think we’re all—”

“Oh my goth, will you just _shut_ _up_?!” the new new Keeper of the Precepts snapped.

“Like yeah!”

“Tho wooneen thith fow uth!”

“Seriously.”

“Y-you . . . You _dare_ . . . INSOLENCE! I am the Grand Goth! _I am your liege_!”

“Foolish mortal, to so name yourself when you stand before the original goth!” Stan declared dramatically. “Gaze upon the face of Seth—the black beast of shadow and chaos, master of darkness—and his black . . . skirt-thing and occult jewelry! Know his gothness, ye mighty, and despair!”

“Is this like . . . the secret to like supreme gothness?”

“It is all before you,” Stan whispered. “His attitude, his garb, his mystic sigils. Anyone with eyes to see can learn from the images on the Canopic Jar of Seth all there is to know of gothness. But today, you can purchase _for_ _your_ _very_ _own_ a non-cursed reproduction; study it in the comfort of your own . . . where do goths actually live? In the basement, or something? Special _reduced_ price of thirty dollars! _Today_ _only_! Just step into the gift shop, and our friendly cashier will be more than happy to take your money! I mean, help you spend your—I mean, help you.”

“No way! I have _got_ to have one!”

“An meh!”

And four out of five goths agreed that they should not delay.

The deposed Grand Goth glared at Stan for a moment. Then, a smile crossed that painted face—the smile of a serpent. “I can enter your emporium of ennui now, old man?”

“If that means ‘buy at least two souvenirs from the gift shop before I let you leave’, then yes.”

Reaching into a trenchcoat pocket, the deposed Grand Goth swept menacingly away. “Prepare the cameras, faithful goths, and all shall be forgiven! For the moment of abasement is _now_! Pretender, your time has—WHERE IS THE PRETENDER?!”

Wendy, lounging at her usual post behind the register, glanced up casually from a magazine. “Pretender?” she asked with feigned confusion. “Oh! You mean Lady Mabelladonna, the Grand Goth!”

“I AM THE GRAND GOTH! WHY HAVE NONE OF YOU PREPARED YOUR CAMERAS!”

“Because we’re like busy buying the secret to like supreme gothness so we can usurp you. Duh.”

“RUBES! CRETINS! INFIDELS!”

“Yeah, keep yelling. That’ll motivate them,” Wendy taunted breezily.

From behind the deposed Grand Goth, Stan called, “Wendy, waive the two-souvenir minimum for everyone who buys a jar. Enforce it for . . . everyone else.”

Wendy threw a lazy salute. “You got it, boss-man.”

“Where’s Soos? SOOS!” Stan bellowed.

And an instant later, Soos appeared in the doorway. “Yessir, Mister Pines, sir!”

“Help Wendy ring up our customers. Make sure no one leaves _empty_-_handed_.”

Soos threw a salute.

“ENOUGH OF THIS! YOU PROMISED ME THE PRETENDER IF I TOOK YOUR STUPID TOUR!”

“Kid, I didn’t _promise_ you squat. I _said_ you had to take the tour before you could come in here. But, if Mabel wants to talk to you later, be my _paying_ guest. The price is two souvenirs for you, kid.”

Seething, the deposed Grand Goth demanded, “Where is she?”

Wendy made a show of considering that question even as she rang up the others’ purchases. “Where _is_ Mabel, Soos?”

“I think the girls are having lunch, dude.”

“Oh, yes! The Grand Goth is currently on lunch break with her BFFs,” Wendy declared. “How silly of me to forget that I told her take a break only a few minutes ago.”

“When will she be back?”

“Hmm. Well, Stan gives us such _generous_ lunch breaks—don’t you, boss-man?”

Stan gruffed, “No comment.”

“So it might be a while,” Wendy said.

“Where is she?”

“Probably in the kitchen, if I had to guess.”

And when the deposed Grand Goth moved in that direction, Soos barred his path. “Sorry, dude, but that area’s off limits to all non-Mystery-Shack personnel. You can’t just go into someone’s house.”

“Then I will wait for her.”

“Maybe do some shopping—pick out the two souvenirs you like best. We’ve got some great stuff to choose from, dude,” Soos said amicably.

“Your shop is full of plebian _rubbish_. I will buy _nothing_.”

“It’s sorta like a _rule_, dude.”

“Ha! I am the Grand Goth. I do not spend my own money. Thus you cannot force—”

“Collateral closet,” Stan ordered.

And, in a flash, Wendy and Soos shoved the deposed Grand Goth into a closet and locked it.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!”

“If you can’t—or won’t—buy something, you go in the collateral closet until that changes,” Wendy announced cheerily. “Don’t worry, though. There’s a catalogue for you to shop through.”

“RELEASE ME AT ONCE!”

“Mmm . . . Nope.”

“FAITHFUL GOTHS! FREE ME THIS INSTANT!”

“You mean the others? They’ve already gone,” Wendy said with a wink to the others. “Probably got tired of being bossed around and yelled at. Maybe went to join the other goths.”

“Yeah, I am like _so_ _done_ with this noise.”

“Me, too,” the new new Keeper of the Precepts concurred. “Maybe the Keeper of the Precepts will accept me as an apprentice or something . . .”

And the four goths filed out with their new, non-cursed canopic jar replicas. Four out of five goths agreed that the fifth was kinda being a jerk.

“Hopefully _someone_ will come back with enough money to cover your two-souvenir minimum,” Wendy said through the door. “But if not . . . well, I guess, you’ll die in there. Have fun with that!”

“THIS IS ILLEGAL!”

Stan chuckled, “Actually, according to the town charter, it’s not. Technically, I could harvest your organs to cover your debt. Lucky for you, I don’t like to get my hands dirty. Oh, and Soos,” he added. “We need more of those fake Egyptian jars. The only one left is out in the museum.”

“I KNEW IT!”

****

As Dipper and Norman climbed (and Detoby floated) up Mount Immovable, the exchange of words that sound dirty (but aren’t) continued apace. It soon became something of a “Top This” game. Oddly enough (or perhaps not), this kept them in boisterous good spirits and helped them therefore to maintain a steady tempo in spite of the thinner air, the steeper elevation, and the trickier terrain. Almost-obscenities maintain morale better than singing, it seems. This fact may shock Maria von Trapp, but will shock no one who has ever actually worked in close contact with nonfictional boys (of any age).

Abreast led to coccyx (the tailbone)—as the only rule established was that a word didn’t count without its definition—thence to fallacy (a misleading or erroneous notion) and ramrod (a straight piece of metal for the cleaning of a firearm’s barrel). Dictate (to command authoritatively) followed with several of its variants, as well as gyrate (to move in a circular motion) and gesticulate (to make gestures). Rapier (a type of thrusting sword) was next, then rector (a kind of priest), shihtzu (an annoying breed of small dog), shied (past participle of “to shy”, as in to flinch) and Uranus (the planet—absolutely no jokes were made about the Gas Giant that is Uranus; none whatsoever). Throwing the game open to names put Bangkok (capital of Thailand) in bounds, along with the Shetland Islands (Scotland), Hell (Norway and Michigan), Middlefart (Denmark), Crapstone (UK), Ballstate (Indiana), Intercourse (Pennsylvania), Regina (Canada), and Cockburn (Australia). Of course, none could forget Balzac (notable French author).

Crotchety (grumpy) was inevitable at that point, but Norman surprised both his companions by submitting the phrase “growing pains” after it. The natural reflex was, at that point, to fold inward protectively; no male enjoys the notion of growing pains, not even the ones that technically cannot feel anything at all anymore.

“Jeez, man. I had some good ones, but now . . .” Dipper complained. “All I can think about is freaking growing pains . . . Freak—oh, yeah! Fricative!” he shouted triumphantly. “It’s a kind of way you pronounce different sounds! Even if it sounds like an expletive.”

{Fricative . . .} Detoby mused. {Fric-a-tive . . . Fecund. Fertile or bountiful.}

“Detoby says ‘fecund’, meaning fertile or bountiful,” the Medium transmitted.

“Hmm . . . I’ll see your fecund and raise you a pimpernel. It’s a flower.”

“Primp,” Norman answered immediately. “It’s like . . . to dress and get ready, but in a kinda prissy way. Also, prissy: holier-than-thou. Double tap. Boom.”

{I fold.}

“Really? Is _that_ how it is? Am I gonna have to bust out the _big_ _guns_ now?” Dipper retorted.

“Big guns? Please. You couldn’t even pick up a _small_ gun,” Norman countered. “But me? I pack nothing lighter than _Medium_ _guns_. Boom!”

“Oh, you did _not_ just say that.”

“Oh, yes I _did_ just say that. Didn’t I just say that, Detoby? He said yes, but you can’t hear him. Because you are not even small guns, but me: _Medium_ _guns_. Boom. And I’ll say it again. Boom!”

“You want boom? I’ll give you _nuclear_. I’ve been holding the best back, and you won’t be able to fricative top it, man. Not in a million fricative years.”

“You got fecund nothing.”

Dipper grinned his checkmate grin. “Then try and top this one: masticate. Boom!”

Detoby’s face became a mask of horror.

“And you masticate _frequently_,” Dipper continued, flushed with certain victory. “You have to, because you _just_ _can’t_ _help_ _yourself_. You’re a _chronic_ masticator.”

Coolly, Norman asked, “So what does it mean?”

“To chew.”

Nodding appreciatively, Norman declared. “Not bad. You weren’t kidding. But I _can_ top that.”

“No, you can’t,” Dipper scoffed. “_Nothing_ tops ‘masticate’ in the sounding dirty department.”

“You’re not the only one who’s been holding back. You’re not the only one who can go nuclear. But I’m warning you now, you don’t want me to drop this bomb.”

“Ha! Now it is you, my friend, who has got fecund nothing.”

With a single word, Norman shook the world. A scant few hours ago, he would not have dared, but the easy camaraderie of the hike had emboldened him. He didn’t stutter, he didn’t blush, he didn’t even hesitate; he even smiled as he said it—the smile of one who drops the bomb. “Endosperm.”

The mountain was silent. No wind. No birdsong. Nothing but silence.

“Shall I use it in a sentence?” Norman asked. “Okay. You must _really_ like the _taste_ of endosperm, because you just kept shoveling it _into_ _your_ _mouth_ last night.”

{No more, you little yuckraker!}

“Gah! You win!” Dipper capitulated laughingly. “Just stop, you evil, evil person!”

“Well, you _did_ masticate on a _ton_ of endosperm—”

“I said you win! I can’t possibly top that!”

With a smug smile, Norman declared, “No. No, you can’t. By the way, it’s basically the part of a fruit or grain that we eat. So rice? All endosperm.”

“Ha! How do you even learn something as horrific as that?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me where you learned ‘masticate’.”

With a sigh of indignity, Dipper admitted, “Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.”

“My Grandpa was big into gardening. And, after he read it in a book, he told _everyone_. I swear, we couldn’t have a _single_ family meal without him whispering it as we all took a bite, and then tittering like . . . well, us earlier.”

“Very manly t-tittahaha—fricative! I still can’t say it!”

{My wife always used to say that little boys never actually grow up; we just grow bigger,} Detoby reminisced fondly. {I suppose time will prove she was always right, the old ball-and-chain . . . You two have big families?}

Norman conveyed the statement and question before answering it. “Not really. My parents both have a sister with families, but there’s not a lot. Just some cousins. We hardly ever see each other, either. What about you, Dipper?”

The behatted boy looked away. “J-just my sister and . . . Hey, we’re there! I almost missed it.”

{What? Here?}

“This c-cave?” Norman asked nervously.

“This cave,” Dipper affirmed. “Now, brace yourself. He looks kinda frightening, but he’s a lot nicer than he seems at first.”

“O-okay . . .” And Norman cautiously followed the behatted boy to the mouth of the cave.

Floating along behind the boy Medium, Detoby whispered, {You know what flabbergasts me? I’m . . . I’m actually expecting something to be there. At this point, I will be _let_ _down_ if—}

“Shh . . .”

They had entered the cave. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. The ground and walls were a mass of lumpy protrusions, formed by the century-slow mineral deposit of dripping water. Also, there were bones. Lots and lots of bones. Norman gulped, and stayed very close to Dipper.

It did not seem very deep or wide at first. In fact, there was a moment when Norman was sure they had reached the rear wall. Then, with an almost electric tingle that he felt in every cell of his body, there was no rear wall. It was like there had never been a rear wall; the cave was immense, and it stretched off in passages and corridors in all directions. But there had been a rear wall in front of them.

And it had been dark and dank a second ago, where now the entire cave was airy, warm, and filled with an ambient glow. And that almost electric tingle . . . That strangely familiar tingle . . .

“Do you feel that?” Norman whispered hoarsely in Dipper’s ear. He barely had to lean in.

“Feel what?” Dipper whispered back.

“That . . . e-electricity? Well, it’s not _actually_ electric, but I’m not sure how else to describe it.”

“Nnnnno . . . No, I don’t feel anything.”

Normal swallowed. “It d-didn’t seem like the cave suddenly got _bigger_ and b-_brighter_?”

“What are you talking about?”

{I feel it too, Bugaboo. There’s something . . . different about this place.} The Jokergeist actually shuddered. {It feels . . . Well, that’s the pinch, isn’t it? It actually feels like something . . .}

“There . . . s-sure are a lot of b-bones in here . . .” Norman tried to observe casually.

Dipper stopped and wondered aloud, “Why are we whispering?” Then he called out, “HELLO?”

In front of them, a section of the cave wall suddenly stirred. Then it rose up ten or twelve or maybe even fourteen feet! Specific measurements didn’t much matter at that point, for it was huge! And it stood upon four claw-tipped legs, had four claw-tipped arms, and at least eight heads on its body! Grizzly bear heads—heads with yellow grizzly bear eyes and long grizzly bear fangs—on its massive, grizzly bear body! _Eight_ _of_ _them_!

{_Raiding Revenuers_! _What is that thing_?!}

But all Norman could do was stare at it in slack-jawed terror.

“WHO DARES TO ENTER MY DEN?!” it roared (or, more accurately, its largest head roared, while the other seven heads just roared). “WHO DARES TO DISTURB—oh, it is you, Warrior.”

“Hey, Multibear,” Dipper said with a casual little wave. “How you doing?”

“I am well, thank—”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaa!”

Dipper and the Multibear turned their respective heads to look at Norman. Except there wasn’t a Norman to look at any longer. Norman was dashing towards the cave mouth in uncontrollable panic.

“Er, excuse me a moment,” Dipper said to the Multibear. “Be right back. NORMAN!”

{H-he talked to it . . . And it talked back . . .} Detoby murmured in shock. {He’s been telling the truth all along . . .}

“Ahem. I would prefer a slightly less objectifying pronoun, if you do not mind,” the Multibear asserted dryly. “I would prefer ‘he’, in point of fact.”

{You . . . You talk!} Detoby gawped. {And you can hear me, too?!}

“Yes, so there is no need to shout. Please use your incave voice.”

Bursting out of the cave and into early afternoon sunshine, the Medium went from blind panic to blinded panic. On sloping, rocky terrain. Such a combination made his misstep and tumble down the slope all but inevitable (and undeniably comedic, albeit in a tragic sort of way—like watching a kitten flee straight into a wall).

Before he could recover, Dipper jumped down in front of him. “Whoa, Norman! Calm down.”

“It has _eight_ _heads_!”

“Yeah. I know he does.”

“_Eight_ of them, Dipper!”

“It’s okay. This is the guy we came to see.”

“But it has EIGHT HEADS!”

“So?”

“B-but . . .” Norman was utterly stymied by that response. “Eight?”

“And all eight of them are really cool. Don’t be rude. Come meet him.” Pulling his friend upright, he remarked, “Got a few scrapes, eh? Good thing I carry a first aid kit. I’ll patch you up in the cave.”

But before he would take a single step, Norman asked, “S-so . . . You brought me h-here to meet a talking, eight-headed bear? I’m n-not imagining this?”

“Yep and nope respectively. C’mon!” Marching back into the cave’s interior, Dipper genially said, “Norman, meet my friend the Multibear. Multibear, meet my friend Norman Babcock.”

The Multibear’s alpha-head nodded graciously. “Welcome to my cave, jumpy child.”

“Um . . . H-hi,” Norman stammered from behind Dipper.

“Your ghostly friend here informs me that you are a Medium, jumpy child,” the Multibear observed with a gesture towards Detoby.

The Jokergeist shrugged sheepishly. {He asked. And growled from several places. And sneezed. Besides, how was I supposed to lie to an eight-headed bear?}

“You ought not to lie to anyone,” the Multibear chastised him. Then, turning back to Norman, he inquired solemnly, “Is it true, jumpy child, that you are a Medium?”

“Y-yes . . .”

“Come closer, please,” the Multibear requested.

It took a small push from Dipper before Norman’s legs would function on their own—before Norman could shuffle forward with understandable trepidation. Trembling, he watched the alpha-head lower itself to his level. It was as big as he was; its fangs were as long as his hand. The force of its breath was like a tropical gust. Hot and moist . . . So gross . . .

One of the other (and only slightly-smaller) heads growled and poked its nose against his chest. It was instantly swatted for this involuntary gesture of curiosity and upbraided, “He is a guest! Behave!” But it was still forceful enough to knock the Medium back a step.

Norman scrunched his eyes shut.

“Let me see your eyes, jumpy child. I swear I will not eat you.”

Oddly enough, such a guarantee was not very reassuring. But Norman forced himself to comply.

A yellow gaze, piercing as a predator’s fang; intense as the struggle for survival; powerful as the combined strength of all the denizens of the Kingdom Animalia—this is what peered into the Medium. Impossible to meet such a gaze for long, but he tried.

“Hmm . . . So it is true, as the spirits have whispered . . .”

{I, er, did tell you . . . um, sir. The NorMedium has the jeepers peepers.}

The Multibear sat on his haunches. “But that the Children should know each other already . . .”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Dipper asked.

“Hmm? Oh, forgive my musings, Warrior. I was merely pondering over this . . . turn of events.”

“What turn of events?”

“I . . . am not sure yet. Forgive my cryptic non-answer, but there is naught I can say for certain. Not at this time.”

“C-can I . . . m-move now?” Norman squeaked.

The Multibear looked down (and around, and over, and under, etc.), then laughed. “Of course, jumpy child. Welcome to my cave and make yourselves at home. Can I offer you a leg of elk?” And, to the horror of all three humans, he produced a massive chunk of elk carcass. “No, guests first!” he stated, slapping several of his other heads away from it.

Norman looked like he might faint. Dipper managed to gag out, “W-we . . . uh, packed our own lunches . . . But th-thanks!”

{And I don’t eat . . . Thank heaven,} Detoby added in an undertone.

“More for mes, then.” His non-alpha-heads ripped into it, a nauseating reminder to all present that nature isn’t all lion cubs and bunnies. Eventually those lions will tear those bunnies apart, because nature isn’t cute. “What brings you all to my cave? It is hardly within easy distance of your town.”

“W-well, uh . . . Norman here hasn’t been in Gravity Falls for long,” Dipper replied, striving with all his might not to stare at the ravaged carcass being further ravaged just in front of him. “I w-wanted to introduce him to some of the, um . . . wonders of . . . Some of its wonders. And you’re the c-coolest.”

“I thank you for the compliment.”

“P-plus I had something I wanted to give you. Y’know. K-kinda to say sorry for almost killing you, and all.” Reaching into his backpack, Dipper explained, “I f-figured you don’t get much chance to hear the latest albums way up here. Hope you like it.”

“Ooo! BABBA’s newest album!”

“It’s for _him_?!”Norman burst out suddenly. “_He_ likes girly Icelandic-pop sensation BABBA?!”

“I do, yes,” the Multibear replied evenly. “Do you find that laughable, jumpy child?”

“Um . . . N-no . . .”

It is usually just best not to question the tastes or challenge the opinions of someone so tall that it functionally ceases to matter exactly how tall they are. Especially if they have eight heads.

“I brought you some batteries, too,” Dipper interjected quickly. “I figured your player probably needs some by now.”

“Thank you, but I do not need batteries in my cave.”

Dipper blinked in surprise. “You _don’t_?”

“I will show you.” The Multibear trundled off, searching through his cave’s side passages. “Where did I last put it? In here? No . . . Perhaps—Aha! Here it is!” Upon his return, he showed them the boombox’s empty battery compartment. But it still played when he inserted the new disc.

“How is that possible?” Dipper wondered.

“A good question.” The Multibear turned to the Medium. “What do you think, jumpy child?”

Stunned Norman, stammered, “M-me?”

“You are a Medium. You bridge the worlds of the living and the dead—worlds of flesh and spirit. As do I, though not for humankind. Ergo, I suspect my cave feels familiar to you. In a way.”

“You mean . . . the electricity here?” Receiving an encouraging nod, Norman ventured, “And . . . the way it got bigger? And brighter, too, all of a sudden—”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see it? Detoby did.”

Confused, Dipper asserted. “The cave was always like this. Wasn’t it?”

The Multibear chuckled deep within his alpha-throat. “He is not a Medium, jumpy child. For all his other talents and gifts, he cannot see all that you see.”

{I, sure as sherry in a speakeasy, am no Medium. But I saw it,} Detoby contested.

“You are a spirit; it is only natural that you would see spiritual things.”

“He’s talking to Detoby,” Norman explained to Dipper.

“So the cave . . . changed?” the behatted boy asked in bemusement.

The Multibear declared simply, “It did the last time you came here, as well.”

“I don’t remember that . . . Why didn’t I see it?”

“Because you are not a bridge between the physical and the spiritual worlds, nor are you under the influence of some powerful spirit. Your eyes can only see one world at a time, but your friend’s eyes can see both at once.”

“So this is another world?” Norman asked incisively. Then it clicked, and he understood the familiarity of it. “This is like . . . Just like with Aggie! The light from nowhere, that buzzing-tingling feeling, the way space is all . . .” His hands rolled through the air, trying to mime a word he couldn’t find. “Wonky. It was _wonky_ with her—like up was down. This cave is bigger on the inside than the outside . . . So, it’s another world? A smaller one?”

“Very good. You are almost right.”

“Then what is it?” Dipper asked.

“You could think of it like a pocket _in_ _between_ worlds. The entrance is in the physical one, but it runs along or into the spiritual one. Thus, I can cause its reality to bend.”

“And have infinite closet space,” Norman observed wryly.

“Or light this far in from the cave mouth. Or electronics that never need batteries. This is a place filled with energy.”

“Spiritual energy?”

“All energy is the same,” the Multibear replied.

“Deep . . .”

“Almost as deep as the lyrics to this song.”

They listened. Norman tried not to laugh. “They’re just singing ‘buh’ over and over again.”

“They were singing words a moment ago, jumpy child.”

“Yeah!” Dipper concurred. “This song is great! If you don’t like it, don’t listen.”

“Loudspeakers,” Norman countered dryly. “Though . . .” Looking at the Multibear, he grinned. “Headphones probably aren’t a practicable solution for you.”

“I would require a lot of them,” the Multibear conceded.

Dipper laughed out loud. “Imagine the iPod poster!”

****

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. These layovers are irksome, but what can one do? Traveling inconspicuously means travelling by commercial jet. Eat a ginger cookie, mi amigo. They are surprisingly good.”

****

“So you like the new album, then?” Dipper asked hopefully.

The Multibear nodded. “Very much. Thank you for it. I have been trying for some time to hear their new songs on my ‘iPad’, but apparently one must have ‘credit’ to ‘download’ music.”

Norman and Dipper both stared. “_You_ have an _iPad_?” the former asked.

“Recently, a hiker abandoned it as I was in the woods nearby, foraging.” A moment of searching through his cave later, the Multibear showed it to them. His foreclaw functioned just like a stylus. “It is quite remarkable, all the information that is available over this ‘internet’. The hourly weather forecast, the star charts and ecological data . . . The facilitated communication of ‘electronic mail’ and ‘forums’. For example, I now contribute regularly to several sites about northwestern American forests and wildlife conservation. I also recently discovered a free art site to display my cave paintings, and they seem unexpectedly popular. I have over 5000 ‘hits’ . . . Which, apparently, is a good thing.”

“What site is that?”

“It has the somewhat misleading title of ‘deviantart.com’. My account name is ‘cavebear2’.”

“There was another ‘cavebear’?” Dipper asked in mild disbelief.

“It astounds me as well. Though my inquires lead me to conclude that it actually belongs to a male human who finds beauty in black and white photographs of other unclothed, hairy, overweight male humans.”

Norman, Dipper, and Detoby all sat (or floated) in dumbstruck horror. They each would have preferred to watch their host combo-devour another elk rather than have that image in their heads.

“I am also currently in correspondence with a member of the royal family in a place called ‘Nigeria’,” the Multibear continued in blithe obliviousness. “He believes I am deserving of ‘funds’ from his ‘bank’—something which would give me credit and allow me to download more of BABBA’s songs.”

“Um . . .”

“Though I do find the repeated offers of ‘male enhancement’, cheap medicine from Canada, or knowledge of the secrets to female seduction rather pushy. It seems that, no matter how often I explain to my correspondents that I am sufficiently masculine, require no medicines of any kind, and never want for female companionship during the mating season, the offers continue.”

Dipper and Norman exchanged an extremely awkward glance.

{So . . . I don’t suppose you’d be able to _share_ the secrets to seducing females?}

“What secret could _possibly_ exist? You simply chase away all the other males in your territory. Then the females there will mate with you.”

{Intriguing . . . Lateral thinking . . .}

“And this ‘Angry Birds’ game . . . How would pigs manage to steal a bird’s eggs? The premise baffles me as much as these insistent offers.”

“Sounds like you, um . . . keep busy online, then,” Dipper observed.

“It is useful for those inevitable moments when nothing needs be done immediately. But there is always much for me to do—duties to fulfill, you understand—so I do not have as much time as I would like to explore all its features. But perhaps it is for the best,” the Multibear observed philosophically. “Too much free time melts the brain into pure silliness. How else does one explain the ridiculous actions of the thousands of cats who film and photograph themselves? With nothing else better to do all day, how else are they to pass the time? Though the real question is why they ‘upload’ their humiliation . . .”

Curious, Norman asked, “What duties do you have, exactly? I mean, you _are_ a _bear_. Don’t bears just do whatever they like?”

“I am a Medium, jumpy child. Surely you know what responsibilities that entails?”

“Er . . . I didn’t know there were any.”

Somewhat dismayed, the Multibear inquired, “Have you _never_ had the guidance of another Medium before?”

“Not really. I guess there was . . . sorta my uncle. But I wasn’t really allowed to talk to him.”

“This . . . troubles me . . .”

“S-sorry,” Norman apologized automatically. “I m-mean, he d-did tell me I had to stop Aggie—she was the vengeful g-ghost of a little girl they hanged as a witch—”

“That poltergeist?” Dipper asked.

The Multibear leaned forward interestedly. “Did you stop her? How?”

“I h-helped her move on.”

Eyeing him with newfound respect, the Multibear nodded his alpha-head. The rest had dozed off now that they were full of elk carcass. “That was very right. That is our role. We maintain the balance between the physical and the spiritual worlds. We bridge the divide between them.”

{Well, that’s something you already do, Bugaboo, by what I hear.}

“Is it?” the Multibear asked interestedly of the Jokergeist.

{Absaposalutely. The NorMedium’s always helping us spooky mooks. Passing on messages, helping us fulfill . . . well, unfulfilled dreams. And I’m willing to bet he’d help the heart-beatin’ cretins reach out to us if he was asked. He’s . . . You’re a good kid, Norman.}

“What’s he saying?” Dipper whispered to his friend, who blushed bashfully.

But before he could stammer out a reply, the Multibear declared, “You must continue to do this. Continue to help both sides. And should you ever encounter or ever even hear of a spirit that endangers the living of humankind, it is your responsibility to stop them. To put them to rest, if you can.”

“Um. Why him?” Dipper ventured. “I mean . . . He _is_ just a kid.”

Norman made a face.

“Well, you _are_!” Dipper insisted. “So why does it have to be _your_ responsibility?”

“Someone must do this,” the Multibear replied simply.

“But why is Norm that person?”

In a quiet voice, Norman answered, “Because . . . Because I can. That’s it, right? It’s my responsibility because no one else can do it.”

“Indeed, young Medium.” But the Multibear fixed his piercing, yellow gaze on the behatted boy seated beside him. When he spoke, his voice was emphatic, “But he does _not_ have to do it alone. Just as you, Warrior, do not have to fulfill your role alone.”

“My role?” Dipper repeated incredulously. “I don’t have a role.”

“You do. All have a role. Mine is to maintain the balance of predator, prey, and plant—to keep the balance of flesh and spirit among animal kind. Yours . . . You know yours, I think, though perhaps you do not know that you know it, Warrior.”

“Well, that was unhelpfully cryptic. Can’t you just . . . tell me the answer?” Dipper asked.

“It has more meaning if you discover it for yourself.”

Pointing to Norman, Dipper countered, “You just told him!”

“I did not _tell_ him the answer. I _confirmed_ that he was right.”

“Gah! That’s a distinction without a difference!”

“Perhaps.” It was impossible to tell for sure (given his snout), but it looked like the Multibear was smiling to himself. “But I will tell you one thing explicitly. I read the stars and I converse with many spirits—spirits of the wind, spirits of the woods, spirits of the mountains. They tell me much, and sometimes they even tell me about _you_.”

This was news to Dipper. “Me?”

“Yes. They tell me that you are often far too reckless. You must be more cautious. Both of you,” the Multibear stated fervently. “Beware of the spirits, creatures, beasts, and men you engage. Some are no more dangerous than the average being—dangerous only because they are far too easily frightened, or angered, or hurt into lashing out. But some are malicious and malevolent; they will lash out because they enjoy it. They will seek to inflict harm on others. On you, if you try to stop them. And I judge that you _will_ try to stop such as these,” he concluded with a note of pride.

“Well, yeah. Of course,” Dipper said cavalierly.

“S-sure,” Norman agreed after his friend.

Detoby bit his lip worriedly. Were they not missing the point?

“Beware—not _afraid_, but _aware_,” the Multibear advised them. “Do not be reckless.”

And, after so sober and inspirational a speech, one of the non-alpha-heads burped in its sleep. Loudly. Norman and Dipper, both being teenage boys (or rather, boys in general—or rather, males) both began to titter.

“I suppose that means it is time for a digestion nap,” the Multibear observed. “I shall set my new CD to play continuously and sleep late into the afternoon. Because, my duties notwithstanding, you are correct, young Medium: I am a bear.”

{Heh. No one tells a bear where to sleep.}

“Not more than once.”

Dipper rose and stretched. “Glad you enjoy the CD. I’ll bring you the next one, too.”

The Multibear waved two out of eight paws dismissively. “You do not have to do that, Warrior.”

“Well, it’s sorta the least I can do. I _did_ almost kill you,” Dipper pointed out self-deprecatingly.

“Wait. What?” Norman asked.

“Hmm. When you put it like that . . . I will expect a poster, as well.”

“Ha! You got it. See you later!”

Norman rose. “N-nice meeting you.” Then he hurried after his friend.

Detoby bowed low with a flourish of hat, horn, and rubber chicken (as every gentleman should). {Take care, Bugbear.}

“A word first, if I may,” the Multibear said quietly.

{Yessir?}

“I do not know why you have remained on this side of the veil for so long, and I will not inquire. Such is no affair of mine; your duties and goals are your own.”

Taken aback and more than a little nonplussed, the Jokergeist made no reply.

“But I judge that you care about these children—for the Warrior is right; they are but children,” the Multibear stated judiciously. “Yes, the Child of Stars and Earth and the Child of Spirits and Words . . . but children nonetheless.”

{I don’t follow what you mean.}

The alpha-head of the Multibear yawned. Then he asked, “Do you care for their safety?”

{Of course I do.}

“Then I ask you to protect them. Keep them safe. You might think there is but little you can do,” he added, sensing Detoby’s doubt. “But a little can accomplish a lot if it is in the right place.”

{Is there . . . something I should know?} the Jokergeist asked worriedly.

“There is _everything_ that we _should_ know, and _nearly_ _nothing_ that we _do_ know in this world.”

Crossing his arms, Detoby observed, {You sure get a kick out of being cryptic. You’re a cryptkick.}

Shrugging two sets of shoulders, the Multibear declared, “I have no answers, only misgivings. Lately, it feels like something _dark_ is moving in the valley, but I am not sure. If there is . . . Those two will try to seek it out. They may act recklessly, as children often do. You are an adult, so temper their impetuousness with your experience.”

{What experience?} Detoby asked shortly. {I’m a lousy journalist who tells lousy jokes, for crying out loud!}

“A little that can do a lot . . .” The Multibear yawned again. “A little, perhaps, with a big role . . .” He lay down, like a mountain lying down.

{And that’s it? You’re just gonna fall asleep like that and not tell me anything useful?}

“Protect the children . . . What more do you need to know?” he said muzzily.

{Fair enough,} Detoby grumbled discontentedly. {So I shouldn’t let them out of my sight, then? Yeah . . . But I suppose I can always come back if we need help, right?}

The Multibear made no reply other than a sound like “rrrr” which bears make while they sleep.

{Raiding revenuers, what have I got myself into this time?}

****

“Dude, there’s another goth coming down the road,” Soos announced from the window.

Wendy flicked over a page of her magazine. “You’re sure it’s not one of those earlier ones?”

“This one’s different. He’s wearing a cloak that’s, like, an actual cloak and not an old bed sheet. Thing is sweet. Must be a total babe magnet.”

“Think he’ll pay to take Kennedy Jenkins off our hands?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” Soos shot a pitying glance at the still-bolted collateral closet. “I kinda feel bad for the dude, being abandoned like this.”

“You can only be friends with equals. Kennedy Jenkins doesn’t believe anyone is his/her equal; and that’s why they abandoned her/him,” Wendy said disinterestedly.

And then timidly, the Keeper of the Precepts (the goth in question) entered the Mystery Shack. “Excuse me, but I understand—”

“Samuel Turley!” Wendy exclaimed in mild surprise and equally mild delight.

“Oh. Salutations, Wendy.”

“Haven’t seen you much since my dad’s dance camp. Must be busy, leading a goth revolution.”

“Uh, yes. I am. Thank you for asking. Er . . . Is Her Dark Grace about?” he inquired worriedly.

“You mean Mabel? I think she’s upstairs. You’re not gonna demand to see her too, are you?”

The Keeper of the Precepts blanched. “No! And please don’t tell her I came by! She, um . . . Strictly speaking, she forbade any of us from bothering her. I’m just here to get the . . . the Imposter out of your hair. I heard through the Consortium that there’s a fine to be paid?”

“A two-souvenir minimum,” Soos confirmed.

“Why you doing this, Turley? Kennedy Jenkins is a jerk. Isn’t that why you’re, like, revolting?” Wendy asked pointedly.

“I’m doing this to spare Her Dark Grace further harassment. But also . . . The Imposter was no perfect leader,” the Keeper of the Precepts conceded. “But the Imposter was not a bad leader, either—does not deserve to be forgotten in a closet. All I have is . . . $34.78. Will that be enough money?”

Those must have been magic words, because Stan appeared as they were spoken.

“Gah!” The Keeper of the Precepts jumped back.

“That puts you on the cheap end of enough, kid, but it’ll do. A hat and a snowglobe—thank you, I will keep the change,” Stan said with the smoothness of a professional shyster. “Now, get that punk out of my Shack.”

“Goth, Mister Pines,” Soos corrected him.

“Whatever.” As the collateral closet was unbolted, Stan announced, “You’re free to go, kid. Meaning: get out, ‘cause you’re not free to stay. Here’s your souvenirs.”

The deposed Grand Goth, though hoarse from so much indignation, rose imperiously. “I do not want your knickknacks!”

“Fine. Soos, put these back into the inventory. We’ll sell them a second time. Double profits.”

Taking one look at the Keeper of the Precepts, the deposed Grand Goth sneered, “I do not need the charity of traitors and mutineers. I am the Grand Goth! The faithful will come secure my release!”

“There are none faithful to you. They’ve all either rejoined the Consortium or renounced the Dark Order completely,” he replied with heavy sorrow.

“Because of your disloyalty! Oath-breaker! Poseur-monger!”

“_Because_ _you_ _were_ _false_! Did you think your _hypocrisy_ would never be exposed?! Did you think you could lead _forever_?! We all knew the Promised One would come _one_ _day_, didn’t we?!”

“_Heresy_! And you spread your heresies across the internet! I have seen the forums!”

“It isn’t _heresy_! It’s _prophecy_! If you would just look with eyes unlightened by personal ambition, you would see that for yourself. Come back to us,” the Keeper of the Precepts pleaded. “We have lost so many already . . . And will lose more across the globe, I fear, as the revolution spreads. Come back. I can convince the others to forgive you. Please.”

“_Forgive_ _me_?! I AM THE _GRAND_ _GOTH_! IT IS FOR YOU TO BEG MY FORGIVENESS!”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not this again. Get them out of here.”

But before anyone could make a move, Mabel entered in on the scene with Candy and Grenda. “What the heck is with all this yelling? Cut it out; I’ve got a freaking headache.”

“YOU! PRETENDER!”

In one fell motion, the deposed Grand Goth drew something from the pocket of the trenchcoat and lunged for Mabel! A thrust against her chest! She stumbled back—a splash of color over her heart!

Grenda caught her as she fell.

“Hambone?!”

“Mabel!” Candy screamed. “_NOOOOOOO_!”

“Your Dark Grace!”

“Hahaha! VICTORY!” the deposed Grand Goth bawled in triumph! “That sticker is PERMANENT!”

“Your sweater . . . Our hard work . . .” Candy lamented.

Mabel pushed herself back upright. “A ‘My Little Pony’ sticker?” she demanded harshly.

“Yes! Twilight Sparkle! A silly little girl who _also_ plays at deep mysteries and dark knowledge! One who also _pretends_ at eldritch secrets! To mark you forever as a poseur!”

Crossing over to the cash register (where she poured a little of Wendy’s Pitt onto a paper towel), Mabel observed acerbically, “For a hardcore goth, it sounds like you know an _awful_ lot about this glorified Everybody-Get-Along show for preteen girls.”

“I . . . I looked it up online . . .”

Mabel dabbed at the sticker once, twice, and thrice. “I’ll bet you did. Well, if you had spent more time looking up permanent stickers, and less time looking up how to make princess-fairy horse costumes for your cosplaying conventions, you’d know permanent stickers . . .” She pulled it off easily, like a bandaid. “Are not all that permanent.”

“W-_what_?! But . . . But _how_?!”

“It’s Mabel-ship that’s really magic, hony,” she shamed her would-be shamer. “I know secrets whispered in the deep darkness. The Abyss and I are on a first name basis (it’s named Phil). Know why? _Because I get what gothness really is_. Despair is its essence, and I am the _only_ person in this entire town who knows what despair even is.”

“S-stop pretending to be goth! Stop wearing that mocking crap!”

“I’m not pretending. _You_ _are_. If I were to wear my regular clothes, I would _still_ be more goth than you will _ever_ be. Because _I get_ that gothness isn’t about clothes or how hardcore one looks. Poseurs alone care about others’ perceptions, because they don’t comprehend the utter _meaninglessness_ of them.”

“Stop talking like that! Stop ruining everything I like!”

“Real goths _don’t_ _care_ what other people say or do. Anyone who’s _really_ into anything at all gives exactly _zero_ craps about what anyone else has to say on the matter,” Mabel asserted with vitriol. “I’m not ruining gothness for you. _You’ve_ _never_ _known_ _it_. But, hey, you can always join the _drama_ _club_. You’d fit right in; they also like pretending to be things they’re not.”

Silence filled the room. A cold, hard silence.

The deposed Grand Goth stumbled back a step—as if stricken—then numbly staggered away.

“Wow . . .” Wendy mouthed from the register.

Mabel’s gaze settled on the Keeper of the Precepts, who fell to one knee. “Forgive my presence, Your Dark Grace. I only came to try and prevent the Imposter from attempting this kind of harassment.”

“Great job, Skippy. If this is how you well you do all your jobs, it’s little wonder the last person you advised went nutso-bananas.”

He gulped thickly. “As you say. What p-penance can—”

“You can’t seem to obey even the simplest order—i.e. you’re here now, _not_ leaving me alone. Why should I bother giving you another order to fail at?” Mabel demanded icily.

“I’ll . . . I’ll just remove myself from your sight, then,” he murmured humbly.

“Yeah. You do that.”

Soos actually shivered—that’s how cold her tone was.

Once the Keeper of the Precepts had gone, Grenda cleared her throat. “S-so, um, you wanna—”

“No. Whatever you’re about to say, I _don’t_ want to do it,” Mabel cut her off. “I’ve been hinting all day that my head is pounding, that I don’t feel like eating, watching movies, playing games, designing goth outfits for you two, or even hanging out. Now, because _no_ _one_ seems to be picking up on any hints, I am saying it explicitly in front of everyone. I don’t want to be around any of you.”

“W-we were just trying to help,” Candy said quietly.

“I DON’T WANT HELP! I WANNA BE ALONE!”

Everyone but Stan stumbled back, as if they had been driven away by the force of her shriek. Grenda and Candy looked like they might break down and cry. Wendy and Soos were utterly speechless.

Stan laid a hand on his great-niece’s shoulder, and a tremble ran through her small frame. Pressing her hands into her temples, she groaned quietly, “Gah . . . My head . . .”

“Go take some medicine and lay down, Mabel Syrup,” Stan ordered gently. “You’re upset and saying things that aren’t like you. Things you don’t mean.”

“Y-yeah . . . Sorry . . .” And she trudged from the room.

****

Norman took a bite of his sandwich. As he chewed it, he looked out across the valley—over the lake and river, over the woods and hills, over the town of Gravity Falls. A place where weird really was added to strange . . .

Seated beside him, Dipper bit into his own sandwich. “Mmm. Wa inthith? Huneh?”

“Hmm? Oh, y-yeah. Mom does p-peanut butter and honey . . .” Norman answered distantly.

Dipper swallowed. “It is delicious, and not just because I’m starving.” He took another bite before continuing, “Idof eateh inth Moldibehz (gulp) cave, but . . . well, watching him devour that elk kinda made me lose track of my appetite for a while. Sorry you had to (nomnom) thee tha.”

{Almost as much as I am to see this,} the Jokergeist quipped with a honk of his horn.

“Yeah . . . So it’s all t-true, then?” Norman surmised. “All of w-what you’ve told me about Gravity Falls?”

Dipper gave him a grin. “Would I need to make anything up after the freakin’ Multibear?”

“So the merman in the pool?”

“Really dated my sister for a few days.”

“How’d he even get there?”

“I understand it involved a daring escape from a cargo truck that (luckily for him and his gills) happened real close to the lake, a failed attempt at salmoning up the waterfall, and a lot of flopping. Dumb luck, I guess. But she got him back to the lake, and he must’ve been able to follow the river home. She got a few letters in a bottle from him after that, but they petered out after the end of last summer.” Dipper shrugged. “Summer romances, right? Probably met an octopus-girl or something in merschool.”

“And the monster made of candy?”

“The Trickster. Maybe the candy was just vengeful for being rejected, or maybe there’s some radioactive waste in the dump that mutated it. Oh jeez, I hope it’s not that!” Dipper exclaimed suddenly. “Soos _ate_ that candy!”

“The gremloblin?”

Pointing across the valley, Dipper said, “Lives over there—that patch of dead looking trees. That’s where his cave is. Or was. I think he might’ve moved on after I maced his face.”

“And the Manotaurs?”

“See that rocky, cliffy area down near the bend in the river? Their Man Cave is around there. Actually, it’s thanks to them that I met the Multibear. They wanted me to kill him, but after I learned what a cool guy he is, I told them to stick it.”

“How does no one else see all these things?” Norman wondered incredulously.

“Well, the Manotaurs seem to fill people with a kinda blind panic, so they usually just run away before they ever see them. Like the half-goat god Pan in Greek mythology. I think they might be sorta related or something, y’know?” Dipper hypothesized.

“But, I mean . . . There’s everything else, too! And you’re the only one who notices them!”

“Not the _only_ one,” Dipper contested modestly. “Besides, most of these things are either insanely terrifying or really good at hiding. Like the Gnomes or the shrink/grow crystals. Basically, either you have to know about them and go purposefully looking for them, or they come looking for you.”

Norman shook his head. It felt saturated. “I still can’t believe it . . .”

{Or me.}

“Me neither, to be honest,” Dipper admitted. “Still. Even now. This place really is wondrous . . .”

“And you investigate it all?”

“And you, too, if you want. As part of my team.”

An involuntary, happy smile twitched at the corners of Norman’s mouth. “So w-we just go out—recklessly,” he added, imitating the Multibear’s voice, “looking for these things? How do we even know where to look or what we’re even looking for?”

Dipper hesitated. “Well . . .”

He could feel the weight of the journal inside his vest. A constant weight—he never went anywhere without it. Because he often needed to examine it, yes, but also because he knew instinctively that it had to be protected. That knowledge weighed on him constantly. The information it contained . . . The secrets it contained . . . They weren’t just useful; they were valuable, powerful, and dangerous . . . That was why it had to be protected. Only Mabel and Soos knew of its existence; they were the only ones he had trusted with that knowledge. Up until now, at any rate, and despite the admonition to “TRUST NO ONE!” of whoever had written 3 . . .

And now?

It was crazy, Dipper knew. He hadn’t heard of Norman before Tuesday—hadn’t even known him for a full week. Yet all of Dipper’s instincts were telling him that he could trust Norman. And he wanted to trust Norman. The secret weighed so heavily on him sometimes, and especially lately. With Mabel practically gone. It would be a relief to have someone to share the load. To have a real partner. To have a real friend . . .

“Oh . . . why the heck not?”

“S-sorry?” Norman asked.

“Can I trust you?” Dipper challenged the boy Medium, before expanding it to the Jokergeist. “_Both_ of you?”

{That’s never a good question.}

“Y-yeah, of course,” Norman insisted.

“No, I mean, can I _trust_ you?” Dipper asked with fateful emphasis. “If I let you in on a secret, can I trust you to _never_ _EVER_ tell it to anyone? Because my secret isn’t just something you take _to_ the grave. It’s a secret you have to keep _beyond_ the grave. You can’t ever tell anyone—not even family. Not even as a ghost.”

Norman gulped nervously, and then he nodded. Detoby rolled his eyes at all this melodrama.

“You promise? _You_ _swear_?”

“Y-yes . . . Um . . . D-do we have to, like, spit-shake or cut ourselves, or something?”

Dipper grimaced. “Ew. No. Just swear it.”

“I s-swear. _Solemnly_,” Norman even added. And he did add it very solemnly—hushed whispers, raised right hand, left hand over his heart, and everything.

Then Detoby had to spoil the moment. He chuckled. Paternally. {Look at you two with your secret club and your ‘beyond the grave’ oaths! I’m sorry to tell you, Bugaboo, but this is adorable.}

Norman scowled up at him.

“What is it?”

“He called us _adorable_.”

Dipper scowled up at him (or scowled near him, and hoped he felt the full force of the scowl). “You can leave if you don’t want to take this seriously.”

{Oh, untwist your knickerbockers,} the Jokergeist said indulgently. {I swear. Solemnly. Insofar as I am capable of doing anything solemnly.}

Still scowling, Norman transmitted that Detoby had sworn as well.

“Alright. We’re usually not _completely_ in the dark with the paranormal investigation thing, because I have _this_.” And, from the inside pocket of his vest, Dipper pulled the journal.

“3?” Norman asked. “C-can I . . . see it?”

{Why’s this hand got six fingers?}

“Who wrote it?”

“I don’t know,” Dipper intoned. “Look at the inside cover. The name’s torn off. And it just stops halfway through the pages. Like whoever was writing it disappeared before they could finish. They hid it, though, in this fake tree near the Mystery Shack. For years, maybe, before I stumbled across it.”

As the Medium paged through it, Detoby read, {Floating Eyeballs . . . Giant Bats . . . Werecat . . .}

“All these things exist?” Norman asked in awe. “So . . . is Bigfoot real, too?”

“I think so.”

“El chupacabra? And the Mothman? The Jersey Devil?”

{Anything from Jersey is a devil,} the Jokergeist quipped, though Norman ignored him.

Dipper nodded. “Could be, yeah. I haven’t seen them here, but . . .”

{If this is 3, is there also a 2 and a 1?} Detoby asked.

“That’s . . . a relevant question,” Norman conceded before transmitting it.

“I think so, but I haven’t found them yet. I think they’re also hidden somewhere in Gravity Falls,” Dipper speculated. “But there’s no mention of them. Probably because whoever wrote them was afraid of them falling into the wrong hands.”

“That is so cool!”

“I know, right? And there’s this other guy mentioned several times throughout it—some sorta adversary or antagonist the writer had to face—but only as ‘He’ or ‘Him’. And it talks about dark forces and government conspiracies . . .” Dipper added with quiet excitement.

“Freakin’ cool!”

{Sounds like a talkie. Only real life and death,} Detoby added before the scowling could restart.

As Norman paged through it, fascinated by the sketches and the old photographs taped inside, Dipper continued, “I’ve been adding to it as I go along. Things the writer never saw—or, at least, didn’t put down in _this_ volume—and things that I discover in my own follow-up investigations. The guy wasn’t always right, or sometimes didn’t have the whole story, but . . .”

Norman stopped suddenly, then snorted, “No kidding. Detoby, look at all this crap on ghosts. White sheets? Did this guy ever actually see a real ghost? And ouija boards? Really?”

“Don’t those work?”

“Only if you wanna be punked by some jerk’s ghost. Assuming it’s not just a live jerk.”

{Heh! I had some kids thinking I was Jesse James once. Good times.}

“Well, we can’t all be Mediums,” Dipper countered loyally.

“Is this stuff in the margins what you added about the poltergeists?”

“Yep. The fruits of my non-Medium labor,” Dipper said with some satisfaction. “I may not have your abilities, but I still think it was pretty thorough in—”

“What’s the ‘lamby dance’?”

A chill ran down Dipper’s spine. “The what now? That must be a typo or a smudge or something. Pass it here and I’ll take a look.” And, practically snatching back the journal, he feigned a quick glance before laughing shrilly (in an attempt at nonchalance). “Oh! That actually says the . . . ‘landing glance’. But my handwriting is just so terrible, it’s easy to see how you could mistake it. I’ll just cross that out right here and now, and it will never confuse anybody else ever again. Isn’t that nice? Hahaha!”

{Uh huh . . .}

A frantic moment of scribbling later (and just after slipping the journal back into his vest pocket), the behatted boy seemed to calm down. “Y’know, now that we’re partners, we can update that page with your ghost expertise. And all of them from now on. I mean, I can’t get over how cool it’ll be to have you riding shotgun!”

“You r-really think so?” Norman asked bashfully.

“What? I gotta say ‘heck yeah’ again? With your psychic abilities, and my brains and brawn and leadership and moxie and rugged good looks—”

{Don’t forget my wisdom and experience and peerless fashion sense!}

Norman laughed—a laugh like he hadn’t laughed in months. A laugh of pure joy.

“And Mabel’s . . . Mabel’s heart and optimism . . . once she gets back to normal,” Dipper added (though a bit more somberly). “Plus her ninja skills. With all that, nothing can stop us! Nothing, I say! Because we are the Mystery Kids (plus Detoby)!”

With a snort, the boy Medium asked, “D-do we really gotta call ourselves that?”

“You’ll come to accept it,” the behatted boy assured him. “It’ll grow on you.”

****

It was towards midafternoon, and Stan was already abandoning his suitcoat and tie. This was not a good sign for his mood. “Cheer up, boss-man,” Wendy urged him. “It’s been a good day so far.”

“How do you figure?” Stan countered gruffly. The fez was already going.

“You fleeced five teenagers. Made like $200 off of them. Please keep your pants on.”

“That’s decent at best. But we need more than decent, more than five gullible goths, to keep this show rolling—and that’s all we’ve had this entire week. You do the math: crappy week on one side, decent day on the other.” He mimed a scale with his hands, and the “crappy week” plunged floorward. “We need to get more rubes in here . . .”

“Well . . . Is it maybe time to look at the First and Second rules again?” Wendy suggested.

Stan sighed. “No, if I do the thing we don’t talk about too often, people get suspicious . . .”

“What about the billboard on the highway? We could update it. Or get a website.”

“With what money? I’m hemorrhaging cash left and right here!”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, boss-man.”

Extracting his sheet of figures, Stan waved it at her. “You’re not the one with the bottom line!” By his most recent estimate, he was going to need about $17,628 a year to take care of the gremlins. “And now . . . now I prob’ly need to look into therapy for Mabel, too. You know any psychiatrists?”

“Why would I know a psychiatrist?”

“Well, you’re a—” Stan stopped himself.

“I’m a what? A girl?”

“Well . . .”

Most women would have been offended (and rightly so). Wendy was amused. “Alright. Let’s see you pull that foot out of your mouth now. Go on. Try and talk your way out of this.”

“When women got problems, they go to a therapist. When men got problems, they go to a bar. That’s just the way it is,” Stan asserted. “You’re more likely to know one than me. Statistically speaking.”

“Uh huh. Do I look like I need a psychiatrist?”

“You like tango music. That’s proof that you’re a disturbed individual. Soos, too,” Stan added as his employee reentered the Mystery Shack. “They should have some sorta court-appointed group therapy for mutants like you. Unhealthy psychologically . . .”

Seeing Soos’s bewilderment, Wendy explained, “He’s just ragging on the tango again . . . How’re the girls?”

“Dudes are confused, worried, and hurt . . .” Soos reported unhappily. “I tried explaining that she’s going through a tough time—that she didn’t mean what she said—but . . . it still hurt them.”

“Yeah . . . That’s not like her at all . . . You know any—”

The phone rang, and Soos answered it at once. “Mystery Shack. Be amazed!” After a moment, he said, “Yes, just a moment please.” Covering the receiver, he whispered, “It’s the lawyer.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, but he accepted it. “Yes? Hello?”

“Mister Pines?” a secretary’s voice inquired. It had to be a secretary, because only a secretary working on a Saturday can sound that snippy. “I’m calling on behalf of Mister Arnaque.”

“Yes?”

“We just had some important documents arrive pursuant to the Pines estate insurance claim. Mister Arnaque would like to discuss them with you in person, but our office is about to close today. Would you be free for an appointment on Monday? Say . . . towards eleven?”

“I guess,” Stan growled. Lawyers made his hackles rise almost as much as tax collectors. “But if it’s nothing important, I’m not paying for the time.” And he slammed the phone down on the hook.

“Well, that was . . . brief,” Wendy observed.

Massaging his temples, Stan retorted, “They bill you for every second . . . Consarn _everything_! An appointment with a lawyer—as if my week couldn’t get any worse . . . I need a blintz. Like right now.”

“Well, there’s a healthy psychological response,” Wendy said sarcastically.

“I am perfectly healthy in body and mind for a man my age. I just intend to eat blintzes until everything becomes better and all my stress goes away. If Mabel gets back from walking her pig before I get back, tell her that I’m bringing dinner back with me. Chinese food . . . consarned Dragon Shrimp . . .”

****

It was relief to finally reach the shade of the woods, for the afternoon sun was hot. And, since there was no hurry to be anywhere, Dipper and Norman (and Detoby) moved through them at a leisurely pace. They talked as they did. Nothing serious—just talk. About Gravity Falls and Blithe Hollow, about the towns and the people and the paranormal stuff they had seen, about school, about movies and music and video games. About anything and everything and nothing really at all. The conversation just meandered, like them.

After all, why should it always have to be going somewhere? Or why should they?

Sometimes, the joy of life (and death) is all about living (and deathing) in a moment that has absolutely no significance outside of itself. A hike through shady, afternoon woods, just for the sake of the hike itself. A conversation, just for the sake of talking with someone. Ice cream or drinks or a meal, just for the sake of tasting them.

Splashing someone while they try to cross a river. Just because it’s fun.

“H-hey!” Norman protested. But a protest isn’t much of a defense (which is why cops beat hippies, and not vice versa) so he got splashed again. “Stop! You’re scaring Mister Whitehawk’s fish!”

“Oh! Sorry.” And then, because Dipper remembered that officially he had no idea who that was, he asked, “Who’s Mister Whitehawk?”

“A ghost who fishes for ghost fishes . . . fish. Whatever. He’s right up there. Hi!” and the Medium waved a little ways up the river.

{Hey, Ecelkcelk!} The Fisherghost waved back. {Hey, Detoby!}

{Hello, Whitehawk!}

“Wow. Cool. Why does he do that?” Dipper continued his ploy.

“To help them move on. There’re animal ghosts, too. It’s . . . it’s really cool when they pass over. I wish you could see it,” Norman said wistfully. “I wish people could see what I see . . .”

“Well . . . Why don’t you describe it to me? Be my seeing-eye Medium.”

{Seconded!} the Jokergeist agreed. {More fish-fireworks!}

“Y-yeah, okay!” Norman said enthusiastically. “C’mon. Let’s get a closer seat.”

Introductions were made through the boy Medium, and genial on both sides. Relatively little was actually said, as the Fisherghost was in his fishing zone, but he was quietly overjoyed to see that Norman had a friend; for his part, Dipper was thrilled he no longer had to feign ignorance on this subject (it made him uncomfortable to almost-lie to his friend).

Then, quietly, the two boys sat against a tree to wait while Robert Whitehawk recast his line.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Norman said in a low voice. “You have any current investigations?”

“Um. Not at the moment. Not anymore,” Dipper replied vaguely. “There is . . . er . . . something I’d like to investigate, but . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s . . . kinda personal. C-closer to home, y’know?”

“Like . . . it involves you?”

“You . . . could say that,” Dipper replied nervously. Would it be better to tell Norman everything about his parents now? So soon after officially becoming partners? Or would that make it look like Dipper had been leading him on just to use him for this? If he had been at liberty to voice his innermost feelings, he would have said, “Stupid quandary! Just when I stop feeling like I’m almost-lying!”

Naturally, Norman asked, “What is it?”

In the end, whether because it was the more prudent strategy or because it was easier to delay (“To chicken out”, he would even accuse himself), the behatted boy decided to stick with the initial plan: bring the Medium to the Mystery Shack and see how things played out. “I’m . . . not really sure yet. Need to research a bit more,” he answered evasively. “Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow? At the Mystery Shack? I gotta show that to you, after all.”

Norman’s heart skipped a beat. Why did it have to keep doing that? Not that Norman actually wanted that to stop, per se, but . . . He was stalling again! He had to say something before it got weird! “Okay! Er, I m-mean, sure. If you want. S-sounds cool.”

“Okay. What’s happening now?”

As the high drama of another person fishing unfolded, Norman described it all. It became more animated, however, when the Fisherghost got a bite. In short order, it was landed and hauled smoothly from the river (despite its resistance).

“It’s not very big. Must’ve been young. Whoa! It’s f-flopping all over the place! Haha! You don’t gotta hold it quite so close, Mister Whitehawk! And its upper half is covered in black spots, and its body is like a long rainbow—because it’s actually a rainbow trout, he says. Dark green at the top, then a bright red strip from its throat to its tail, silvery blue, and sorta yellow at the bottom. Its fins are all orange and green. Really pretty, actually. For a fish. It’s mouthing a ton—like fish do—but slowly, it’s realizing that it doesn’t need to breathe . . . And calming down . . . There! He let it go, so hold still . . . It just sorta swims around all over. Like it was still in the water . . .”

“I can . . . sorta see it, I think,” Dipper said.

And the ghosts and the Medium all exclaimed, “You can?!”

“Right there, right?” Dipper pointed directly at it. “It’s starting to . . . kinda glow? Ripple, maybe? Why can I see it?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Norman said in awe.

“What’s happening? It’s getting brighter. Is it moving on?”

“Y-yeah . . .”

{Maybe it’s . . . spiritual energies?} Detoby suggested uncertainly.

“Spiritual energies. Sure. Why not?” Norman transmitted.

The ripple intensified, like sunlight melting through a blanket of mist in a scant few seconds. Then, with a burst of light that pulsed through the air, the fish vanished from their reality. It was indescribably beautiful. And a little sad. Somehow, the world now seemed a little diminished. It had lost something unique and beautiful—a sentient jewel, a living (or deathing) work of art. It was as if a candle had gone out forever, leaving the world that much darker.

Dipper sat back and breathed, “Wow . . . Is like . . . _this_ the kinda stuff you see all the time?”

“Y-yeah. Something passing over is kinda rare, but yeah . . .”

“Man, you are _so_ _lucky_. And everyone is _so_ _stupid_ for not realizing how cool you are . . . Can we watch another one?”

“S-sure . . . Whatever you want . . .”

Norman leaned back against the same tree and waited for Robert Whitehawk to catch another. In that moment, he wouldn’t have cared if it took a minute or an hour or never happened again, so long as everything just stayed the way it was. That was all he wanted—for everything to just stay as it was. For this perfect moment to last as long as possible. Dipper understood him and Dipper was sitting right beside him. Wanted to keep sitting beside Norman. Everything was perfect.

{Caught a lot of fish today?} the Jokergeist asked the Fisherghost.

Whitehawk made the “so-so” gesture. {A lot of people were on the lake. It agitates the fish.}

{Ah . . .} Detoby watched quietly as his compatriot caught and released another. Then he asked, {Do you ever get bored? Just fishing all day? I mean, I enjoyed baiting a hook from time to time myself, but I would think doing it every day would get . . . tedi-fish.}

Choosing to ignore the objectively horrid joke, Whitehawk replied, {I like the peacefulness of it. And it gives me time to think. About life and death. About everything.}

{It doesn’t get lonely, all on your own?}

{It’s not like I can’t go into town when I want. I’m just content usually with this. I’m a simple man with simple pleasures. Besides, what would I go into town for? I don’t need food or clothes anymore.}

Detoby shrugged. {Every Friday night is standup night at the bar. After the heart-beatin’ cretins stagger home, we spooky mooks do some of our own. We have a decent amount of regulars who show, and since they hardly ever let me on stage anymore, the jokes aren’t half bad.}

{Heh.} The Fisherghost reeled in another trout and set it free. {Be at peace, river brother . . . That sounds like it might be fun. Every once in a while.}

{Variety is the spice of death. Just don’t go on Saturdays—like tonight. That’s when they do this ‘carry okay’ thing, where I guess the goal is to see who can carry a tune okay. But they’re mostly drunk (and tonedeaf anyway), so none of them could carry a tune if they had buckets.}

{It’s actually ‘karaoke’. _Japanese_,} the Fisherghost said by way of explanation.

{Ah. Well, _that_ explains the weirdness.}

{Tell me about it. I’m told the word actually means ‘tonedeaf’, but that could have been a joke. Why the sudden invite?} Whitehawk asked casually.

Detoby shrugged casually, but his voice was hollow as he said, {Some of the regulars have gone and moved on. Makes it a little forlorn when everybody’s favorite haunt is not so haunted . . . Besides, the more, the scarier.}

{Hmm. I’ll think about it. Just don’t expect me to get on stage . . .} Glancing back at the boys, Whitehawk asked, {What’d you do today that’s got them so tuckered out?}

The Jokergeist glanced back also, and nearly laughed. Norman and Dipper had both dozed off side by side against the tree. But he only nearly laughed; he did not want to wake either of them, even if he was only actually capable of waking the Medium. {Rather easy to forget that they’re just kids, isn’t it? Um . . . By the way, have you noticed anything, uh, _dark_ going on in the valley? Anything sinister?}

The Fisherghost blinked. {What are you talking about?}

{Just . . . something I was cryptically told earlier today. With them. Up on the mountain.}

{You were told something dark and sinister is going on in the valley?}

{Only that something dark and sinister _may_ be going on in the valley. And to look out for them,} Detoby said with a nod to the boys. {Though what exactly I’m supposed to do . . . And since when am I the responsible adult? I’ve been dodging that one for thirteen decades. Why’s it catching me now?}

A little bewildered, Whitehawk asked, {Who told you all this?}

{Would you believe me if I said it was a talking eight-headed bear in a magic cave?}

{Okay, you got me. I’m gullible. Really funny, Detoby.}

{Yeah . . . Hilarious . . .} the Jokergeist sighed.

{Should we wake them, Mister Responsible Adult?}

Detoby shook his head. {Just let them sleep a little while longer. They are just kids, after all . . .}

****

Time Zones are completely logical, but they cause some surreal effects. For example:

At the same time Norman and Dipper awoke (stiffly) and went their separate ways (reluctantly), an Avianca airplane was touching down at Dulles International Airport. At the same exact time. And yet it was a little after seven o’clock as the boys headed home, and a little after ten o’clock as the airplane landed. At the same exact time.

Logical but Surreal. Such is Time and Space.

The man with hard, sharp features and the soft, round man disembarked from this airplane. Each passed seamlessly through US customs. Their passports were, after all, impeccable. And rightly so, for they were the best that the blood money of El Cartel could buy—works of art. Felonious art, but art all the same. And their bags contained nothing but clothing and toiletries.

A taxi conducted them to a nearby airport, where a reservation in a deluxe suite awaited them. It was not only a luxurious room and breathtaking view that awaited them, however, but two briefcases. One was filled with American currency. The other contained some very specific equipment.

There were two knives (with custom wrist-sheathes), a pair of semi-casual shoes that contained a hidden blade in the left welt (releasable by clicking the heel), a belt with a buckle that was actually a concealed dagger, a fanny pack containing six shuriken, and what appeared to be a professional-grade digital camera: a Nikon D4. Ironically, it contained several charges of C-4 in its hollow interior.

There was also a set of lock picks, a magnet-strip key card that would unlock any magnetic door, binoculars, and a pair of FBI badges and IDs with their photos. Not false ones. Real ones issued by an actual (albeit crooked) member of the FBI.

All of these were gleefully claimed by the soft, round man. He left only one small, low caliber handgun (with a shoulder holster, a second magazine of ammunition, and a silencer). These were claimed by the man with hard, sharp features, who examined them thoroughly inside and out before voicing his approval. “Si.”

One gun, not two. A small one, not a big one. With low caliber bullets, not high caliber bullets.

It always made him smile to see action movies, especially Hollywood ones. In them, you know a character—be they the hero or the villain—is a “badass” (to use an American expression) if they carry two big, powerful guns. But any professional knows it is impossible to aim two guns at once. If you try, you miss with both of them. Missing is hardly “badass”. Furthermore, the larger a gun is, the harder it is to conceal, draw, and aim. And high caliber bullets? They increase the recoil of a weapon and decrease the amount of ammunition a magazine can carry. Lose-lose. They may put bigger holes in the target, but in his professional experience, if you put a hole through someone’s head, it seldom matters how big it is.

There were many thugs, gangsters, and terrorists who had appeared much more “badass” than the man with hard, sharp features. Some had even taken pains to point this out to him; they had laughed at his one, puny gun and compared it to various parts of his physique. They were all dead now. In the end, they had not been sneaky enough, fast enough, or (above all) accurate enough with their multiple bulky and overpowered weapons. They had favored appearing dangerous to being dangerous—a sacrifice that was not so much “badass” as it was (to use another American expression) “jackass”.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. These will do nicely, mi amigo.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. An excellent question. Why fly to Atlanta only to drive to Virginia? Why not simply fly here? But, mi amigo, you forget that la Contable is crafty.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

Joining his partner at the window, the man with hard, sharp features nodded. “Si. I think it was to shake our trail, too. She had to come here to change her identity, but she still did not want us to think that she had come here.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. You are as astute as always. It does not matter what is written on her documentos; she will not use that name in any way that we could track. Had we not my cards, surely we would never find her. Poco importante who made her new identity, for we need only find the hotel where she slept. The hotel with the word ‘moon’ in its name. This we shall do tomorrow. Get some sleep, mi amigo. There may be killing to do tomorrow.”


	8. Chapter 8

Norman couldn’t fall asleep.

Big surprise there. Freakin’ insomnia . . .

He just couldn’t get comfortable.

Kick off the blanket, and he was too cold. Pull up the blanket, and he was too hot.

His body felt exhausted, but his head wasn’t sleepy. He couldn’t turn off his head, either; he just kept thinking about that journal Dipper had shown him, and about those stories Dipper had told him, and about the Multibear Dipper had introduced him to.

He thought about Dipper a lot, too. The nicest, funniest, smartest, bravest, cutest person he had ever met. Just _so_ _great_ in every way. His _partner_, now. They’d be together all the time.

That thought shouldn’t make him feel the way it did. It was weird. It was wrong. He was a boy and Dipper was a boy. Things didn’t work that way. Normal boys are supposed to like girls.

And yet it did make him feel that way . . . And every day made him feel it stronger . . .

Stupid lump under his side. How was he supposed to sleep with that? But he couldn’t move because of Dipper . . .

What if Dipper found out how he felt? What would Dipper say? Would it freak Dipper out? Would it make Dipper not want to be around him?

Norman couldn’t take that. He couldn’t risk that. Ever.

So Dipper must never know. Never.

No one must ever know. Not his family, not his father—fecund fricative, _never_ his father . . .

Stupid tree root under his side, keeping him awake all night. Why’d he have to have this stupid tree in his room? But he couldn’t move, because Dipper was asleep beside him; if he moved, he might wake Dipper . . . And he didn’t want that . . . He just wanted this moment to last forever. It was worth laying on a tree root and being awake all night for this . . .

But maybe . . . just maybe . . . If he was quiet and careful and moved slowly . . .

Just an inch at a time . . .

He could rise up over Dipper. Look down at Dipper’s sleeping face. Peaceful. Perfect.

And maybe . . . just maybe . . . If he was quiet and careful and moved so, _soooo_ slowly . . .

Not even a millimeter at a time . . .

He could lean in closer to Dipper. Kiss Dipper’s sleeping face.

That one act shouldn’t make him feel the way it did. It was weird. It was wrong. Normal boys are supposed to like girls.

The Multibear asked, “Will you let fear of your feelings drive you away from him?”

Norman looked back. Detoby and Whitehawk were riding the Multibear in the river. They were fishing—the Multibear’s many heads eating fish, the ghosts of which Detoby and Whitehawk caught.

“Why could he see it?” Norman asked the Multibear. “When the fish passed over?”

“What do you think? You haven’t answered my question.”

“You haven’t given me any time . . . Was it spiritual energy? Maybe . . . an overabundance of it?”

{That doesn’t matter,} the Fisherghost stated. {Answer the question, Child of Spirits and Words. Answer the real question, for there’s little time.}

“You’re . . . you’re not really Mister Whitehawk,” Norman realized. “Or the Multibear or Detoby. But . . . I’ve met you? Haven’t I? Who are you?”

{It is ‘weird’. It is ‘wrong’,} whatever it was responded through Detoby.

{That is what you said,} it continued, now through Whitehawk.

{It is ‘weird’. It is ‘wrong’,} it said through Detoby.

{That is what you feel,} it stated through Whitehawk.

Norman swallowed. “But I don’t . . .”

{You do not . . . what, Child of Spirits and Words?} it demanded through both ghosts.

“I d-don’t . . . care if it is. I don’t.”

Then, through both ghosts and all the heads of the Multibear together, it asked, “Will you let fear of your feelings drive you away from him?”

“N-no.”

They climbed up out of the river. They loomed over Norman impossibly high. A single voice demanded through ten mouths, “Will you let fear of your feelings drive you away from him?”

“No!”

“Then hold close to him, Child of Spirits and Words. I think . . . I think you will not be lost.”

A paw laid on Norman’s shoulder. Force enough to sprawl him on the ground.

And when he sat back up, he was in bed.

“What the fricative . . . ?”

****

Something was different this time.

There was no home, no Piedmont, no Gravity Falls, and no Mystery Shack.

But Mabel couldn’t even remember passing by where they should have been. And her head . . . it ached every time she thought about them.

No Mom and Dad.

No Gruncle Stan. No Soos or Wendy. No Candy and Grenda.

No Dipper.

But Mabel couldn’t even remember looking for them. And when she tried to think about them—about where they might be—her headache got worse. Their faces were blurred by her headache.

**LONELINESS**

Because there is only you in this cold world. They might as well have never existed. Don’t think about them. You are alone. So alone.

And the door. Always the door with the plaque that read “#13”.

“How did . . . I get here?”

**NEVER AGAIN**

Another throb. Mabel clutched her head.

You were always here. And so was I. Like old friends. Stop asking silly questions.

**OPEN**

“Old friends? But I’m . . . only thirteen . . . And I wasn’t always here—ah!”

The pain. Like being blinded. Was this a migraine? How the heck did people survive this?

There isn’t much time. I’ve been waiting so long. Too long. But you can end that.

**OPEN**

You can let me out. You can do it right now. Only you. The other one won’t come. The other one won’t listen to me anymore. The other one will pay. But you will listen and come. You will let me out.

“Other one? What other—ah! _Why won’t it stop_?!”

**LONELINESS**

There is no other one. No stupid boy who will pay for not listening. There is only you. There has only ever been you. And me. Alone. So alone. But if you let me out, everything will better for both of us.

**NEVER AGAIN**

I’ll make the loneliness stop. I’ll take away your sadness.

And if you don’t, I’ll make your headache worse. I’ll make it split your head open.

And you’d deserve it for not helping me. Helping an old friend. Helping your only friend.

“Who are you?” Mabel asked through the pain.

**OPEN**

I just told you. I’m your friend. Your only friend.

“My . . . friend?”

The throbbing seemed to lessen. Sweet relief.

**OPEN**

That’s right. Your friend. Now just turn the knob. That’s all you have to do, little friend.

Or I’ll rip your brain apart.

Come along, my old friend. My sweet, little friend. Just reach out and turn the knob.

“You . . . promise everything will be better?”

Everything. I promise. I would never lie to you.

“A-alright.”

Gritting her teeth, Mabel threw the door open.

But there was nothing behind it. Only darkness.

“I don’t understand . . .”

**OPEN**

You have to open the real door now. The real door.

And the door frame full of darkness fell towards Mabel! She tried to jump away—

—and rolled out of bed. Mabel tumbled in a tangle of blankets and Waddles, smacking her head against the floorboards.

“What . . . _the poop_?!” she burst out. “What the _freakin’_ poop?!” Her head was still throbbing from yesterday, she was as confused and battered as an armadillo in a soccer game, and a tangled pig was on top of her chest and nuzzling her ear.

“No! _Bad_ Waddles! Stop that! Dipper! Help me up! Dip—”

And then she remembered that he wasn’t there. He didn’t even have the decency to be there when she was pinned to the floor by a pig!

“GRAH! _Dipstick_! Waddles, stop licking me! _Bad_ _pig_!”

****

The woman who was no longer middle-aged savored the last bite of her blueberry blintz. Breakfast—a blueberry blintz. “Exquisito . . .”

And then she returned the plate to its tray, wiped off the table, sprayed it with lysol, wiped it with a different towel, dried it with yet another towel, arranged all three towels and the plate geometrically on the tray, and set them outside her suite. After spraying the whole thing with lysol.

The cleaning staff would thank her for this precaution when they weren’t dying of a disease.

Now, with a freshly ironed map spread before her on a freshly sanitized table, she considered her next move. “Norte? Al sur?”

North or south? The heartland of California on one side, Oregon and Washington on the other. Mexico or Canada as potential later options. Then again, California was huge. She might not need to flee further than California. It could be big enough to hide her from El Cartel . . . to disappear forever . . .

But tomorrow. Yes. She was actually enjoying it here—that nice concierge even let her keep the carpet cleaner in her suite. And the chefs made blintzes that were almost as good as her memories . . . of him . . . Her memories of days before Panama . . .

Tomorrow, yes. There was no immediate rush. She had left no tracks for them follow. Not even the best—with his infamous nose for finding people—could sniff her out here.

Thoughtfully, she entered the bathroom and prepared her bath of rubbing alcohol. So much more relaxing that water, because it was so much more hygienic. Bacteria thrive in water, but not in rubbing alcohol. Only she thrived in rubbing alcohol. She credited her flawless skin to it.

“California . . . Yes. California . . .”

****

{Something eating you, Bugaboo? Like ants? Because you’re acting antsier than . . . a jack with ants in his pants . . . That one sounded better in my head,} the Jokergeist admitted defensively.

Elaine snorted. {It couldn’t have sounded worse, that’s for sure.}

“H-he, um . . . he should be here by now, d-don’t you think?” the Medium asked the ghosts.

Sunday mornings were generally a lackadaisical affair in the Babcock household, so Norman was the only one up and about. Courtney was sleeping late, having been out late, and Perry and Sandra were watching the news in bed. The main floor was his and the ghosts’.

{It’s only nine, Normy,} his grandmother replied with a smile. {Sit down. Watch some cartoons. You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.}

He sat on the couch, but did not pay much attention to the TV. Frequent glances at the door, foot tapping, and running his hand through his hair; he was too fidgety to care what the ninja-esque characters were fighting, or why. Not like there was any real plot to follow anyway.

Detoby cleared his throat nervously. {Your old man . . . he sure sounds angry about something.}

“Hmm?”

{He keeps yelling at someone and calling them an idiot.}

“Oh. He’s just yelling at the news,” Norman replied absently. “If we can hear him all the way down here, he must be in a good mood.”

{He gets that from your grandfather,} Elaine observed, not even bothering to look up from her knitting needles. {I swear, nothing put him in a better mood than having a politician to shout at . . .}

They all sat in silence for a moment.

“You don’t think he f-forgot, do you?”

And then the home phone rang, and Norman practically pounced on it. “Hello?”

“H-hey! Norm? That you?”

A smile automatically crossed Norman’s mouth. It was him. “Hey, Dipper!”

“Ah, cool. It was the right number. I really should’ve written your cell number down earlier.”

“Do you want it?”

“Sure.”

Norman rattled it off. “You want mine?”

Huge sigh. “I don’t have one. And Gruncle Stan seems immune to guilting. I will eventually find his weak spot, though.”

Norman laughed. And then he (hesitantly) asked, “S-so . . . You still coming?”

“Yeah, I just . . .” Dipper sighed. “I got some work I gotta do first. Paint some stupid fake pots . . . Apparently no one else can use the stencils and paints,” he added sarcastically. “So I might not be free for a while. I wanted to let you know.”

“Oh. N-no big deal,” Norman tried to say lightly. “I was just gonna watch some ‘Ancient Aliens’ anyway, so . . . M-maybe just give me a call when you’re free?”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll try to finish as soon as possible.”

“Sure. So . . . T-talk to you later.”

Hanging up, Norman then went and sat back on the couch.

{Ancient Aliens?} Detoby repeated. {Like . . . old immigrants, or—}

Norman flopped onto the couch. “_GRAAAAAaaaaaaa_ . . .”

{Oh, don’t throw a tantrum,} Elaine said mirthfully. {Watch your show.}

“I don’t _wanna_ watch my show! I _wanna_ go investigate paranormal crap with my friend! _Graaa_!”

{Don’t you take that tone with me, young man, or I will make you take a time out.}

“I’m thirteen, and you’re dead. You can’t make me do any—”

{And how much are you willing to bet on that?}

“Graaaraaaara . . .” Norman grumbled. And, since there wasn’t really anything else to do, he changed the channel to the Aliens in the Bible and Hitler Channel (formerly the History Channel).

****

She was the High Priestess, of course. There was no other card that could so perfectly represent la Contable. Now, riding in the passenger seat of a lavish rental car, the man with hard, sharp features held the card to his forehead and looked at the Moonrise Motel of Petersburg, Virginia.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. I can sense it,” he said in Spanish. “This is the one. Finally.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. Fair enough. I suppose, it _did_ only require a morning of work. It is that middle room.”

They pulled into the lot, and the soft, round man used the lock picks as effortlessly as a key. Then, with the “Do Not Disturb” sign hung and the door locked behind them, they were at their liberty to do as they required.

They did not search the room, however; the soft, round man cleared away the furniture while the man with hard, sharp features prepared the deck—removed the Death Card (for it was certain), making the deck number seventy-seven, and shuffled the cards seven times. Then, once his partner had marked out and oriented the seven-foot circle, he took his place in its center and launched all the cards into the air.

Every single one of them landed within the western half of the circle. Not a single one landed beyond its circumference.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. All becomes clearer. She brewed the same bean twice, and crossed the nation in three days. There were . . . some events along the way, but none are of importance. She has stopped, however, within sight of the ocean . . . Near San Francisco. She is still there, in a luxury hotel . . . Repose Inn, to be exact, the Presidential Suite. One of their Oceanview Suites. Ha. ‘Within sight of the ocean’ indeed. Ha. Destiny, it makes a funny . . . And she believes herself safe.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. A foolish woman. Let us make haste.” Drawing his phone, the man with hard, sharp features selected a number from among his contacts and called it.

“Hola? Is this . . . Is it _you_, Señor?” a voice asked timidly in Spanish.

“Si.”

“Ah! It truly is you! The best!”

“Si. We are in the south of Virginia, near Richmond, but must fly to San Francisco immediately.”

“Are commercial flights not acceptable? Must it be a private flight?”

“Si. We have equipment that would not be allowed on a commercial airplane.”

“I . . . can arrange something, but it may take some time if we are not to raise any suspicion.”

“Si. But do it quickly. We do not like to be kept waiting. Least of all when we are on business,” the man with hard, sharp features added almost-threateningly. He hardly ever had to actually-threaten.

“C-claro! I can have it ready for you in . . . a few hours. Will that . . . be acceptable, Señor?”

“Si. If you cannot do better, I suppose.”

“Please go to the airport in Richmond. I will call you with details as soon as I have them.”

“Si.” And the man with hard, sharp features terminated the call.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. Vámanos, mi amigo. To Richmond.”

As they exited the room, a youngish man and woman nearly bumped into them. “Whoa, sorry! Excuse us,” the man said politely in English.

In a glance, the woman took them both in. Exiting a hotel room. With a “Do Not Disturb” sign. She smiled brightly. “You make a really cute couple!”

“Yeah. Good for you two, finding love!” the man agreed. Then they continued on, arm in arm.

The soft, round man looked up at the man with hard, sharp features. “Ehehehehehe?”

“Si . . . I believe that they believe we are homosexuals . . .” the latter speculated in Spanish.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. I would like to kill them as well. But it is unnecessary to murder them. Besides, doing so might complicate matters today. We can always murder someone else later.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. I promise. You know I cannot deny you anything, mi amigo.”

****

Perplexed, Detoby asked, {So . . . angels are extraterrestrials? And Indians—the American and the Asian kind? I’m snozzled. Does this mean Whitehawk is an extraterrestrial ghost? Is that a thing?}

Norman shrugged. “Maybe . . . This guy would be much more credible if he just got a haircut.”

Elaine snorted. {Pots. Kettles. Norman. That guy.}

“My hair grows like this _naturally_,” the Medium contested. “I have _no_ control over it. But there is no way he naturally looks like Syndrome.”

{Syndrome?} Detoby repeated.

“Character in a superhero movie.”

{Now, are they extraterrestrials too, or—}

Norman’s phone began ringing. He drew it faster than a sheriff at high noon. “Hello? Dipper?”

“Hey, man. I’m on my way! Finally. Stupid pots . . . Should be there in a few minutes, okay?”

“Cool! I mean . . . yeah, cool.” Norman failed at casualness. “S-see you then.”

Smiling to herself, Elaine observed, {Well, don’t you look happier now that he’s coming over. You must think he’s pretty awesome.}

“C-c’mon, Grandma!” the Medium protested. “I just think Dipper’s c-cool, is all. It’s not like I . . . lay awake at night thinking about him, or . . . or d-dream about him when I do fall asleep. Hahaha . . . ha. Because _that_ would be w-weird . . .”

Elaine (intentionally) didn’t look up from her knitting. No need to make him feel more awkward.

Detoby nodded to himself. Totally oblivious. {That would be on the strange side . . . Then again, dreams are always rather strange. I once dreamt half my friends were in a conspiracy trying to kill me, and the other half were in a conspiracy to keep me alive. And my wife’s fat, old house cat—thing never left the bed—was the head of the conspiracy trying to keep me alive . . . Now that’s strange. Because that cat hated me . . .}

The second Dipper arrived, Norman shouted, “Going out with my friend! Bye!”

But he never made it out the door. His mother snagged him by his hoodie. “Hold it right there. You haven’t had lunch yet.”

“But Mom! I’m not even hungry!” Norman groaned.

“No buts. A growing boy needs food. Dipper, would you like to join us for lunch?”

“Well, my Gruncle Stan did tell me to hurry back,” the behatted boy admitted. “But then again, it’s hard to imagine him getting upset because he didn’t have to feed me. So thank you very much.”

“Norm, dear, set a place for your friend,” Sandra said.

Complying with a sigh, the boy Medium asked his friend, “What’s all over your hands?”

“Authentic ancient Old Egyptian replica paints,” he answered sarcastically. “Soos and me’ve been painting the fecund things all morning. I only got away during lunch by threatening to report Gruncle Stan to Child Services.”

“What an asinine boss.”

Dipper grinned. “Busting our asymptotes all day.”

{What are they talking about?} Elaine asked Detoby.

The Jokergeist replied, {Inside joke.}

“Until you just don’t give a shihtzu,” Norman continued.

“Until there are literally no more shihtzus to give,” Dipper agreed.

“That’s a lot of shihtzus.”

Sandra looked around from the kitchen counter. “Norm, what are you talking about?”

“Inside jokes, Mom.”

“Well, make inside jokes that don’t sound quite so dirty; we’re about to eat. Let your father know we have a guest, so he should put some pants on.”

“Mom!” Norman protested in embarrassment.

It was a huge relief for him when he and Dipper were both finally excused to leave.

“It’s okay, though,” the behatted boy assured his friend as they left. “My Guncle Stan always wears pants during likely tourist hours. Outside those hours, well . . . Let’s just say it’s more than all bets which are off.”

“Is it, like, part of getting older that men stop caring about being dressed?” Norman wondered.

{Well—}

“Detoby, if what you’re about to say has anything whatsoever to do with you not wearing pants, I do _not_ want to hear it. Now or ever.”

Dipper laughed. The Jokergeist closed his mouth.

The walk to the Mystery Shack was short but pleasant. An early Sunday afternoon in September through the town and the woods. The perfect time of day at the perfect time of year. And then, around the final bend in the road, there was the Mystery Shack—an almost dilapidated cabin festooned with banners, guarded by an old totem pole, and crowned by a sign that had lost the S in “Shack”. Duct tape was obviously a key component in its integrity (making its integrity less questionable than its owner’s). Plant life had taken root on its roof, where a weathervane in the shape of a question mark turned lazily in the breeze. “BE AMAZED!” one sign outside its door said, while another read, “NO REFUNDS!”

Norman’s jaw dropped when he first saw it. So did Detoby’s.

“It’s a little . . . um . . . rundown on the outside,” Dipper warned them both anxiously. “And inside. And weird on the inside, too, but—”

“It’s _perfect_!” Norman whispered.

“What?”

{What?}

Standing in a clearing, sunlight shone on the old building like a heavenly promise. If here had been a soundtrack for this moment, angels would be singing a celestial chorus of “Aaahs”. It all felt . . . Something about it just felt right to the Medium. “You get to live in this?” he asked in awe.

“It’s not so much a ‘get to’ situation as a ‘have to’ situation,” Dipper specified.

“I will trade houses with you _right_ _now_, man. I am not even joking.”

{You’re not? Because that _sounds_ like it should be a joke.}

“Well . . . It’s not _bad_, but it’s definitely not that _great_ . . .” Dipper replied nervously.

Very nervously. Because this was it, he suddenly realized. The point of no return. Move forward, and one of two outcomes would be inevitable: either his new friend here would see and then ask about the ghosts inside—about his parents—or . . .

Or his new friend _wouldn’t_ . . .

Dipper gulped. He wasn’t sure he could take that.

“And . . . um, my Guncle Stan will p-probably put us both to work once we go inside. So, yeah. This is basically your last chance to back out of m-meeting my screwed up family. I’m warning you now. Hahahaha . . . ha . . .”

But Norman laughed also. A real laugh. “No way, man! I am _dying_ to see this. You have gotta show me.”

Dipper gulped again. “O-okay.”

No choice now. And maybe that was for the best.

****

The stencils and paints normally worked pretty smoothly. One just had to attach them around the faux-ancient faux-canopic jars, and paint each shape in the color now stained to the stencil itself. Then detach the stencil, let the jar sit in the sun for an hour and—bam!—a “non-cursed reproduction” of the Canopic Jar of Seth for only the cost of paints, a bulk order at Pottery Barn, and child labor. Maybe four dollars to make a jar, but they sold for nothing less than twenty-five to people who thought (laughably) that they were getting a bargain.

And that’s how you make money in business. Manufacture low and retail high. To rubes.

Mabel—Maestra d’Arti e Crafti—could usually produce one in under twenty minutes, and it would look better than any Dipper or Soos would require half-an-hour to make. But not today. Today, everything felt off. Especially her head. She had barely managed three of them all morning.

Now, she just gave up. She slammed down the brush and left the inventory room to find Stan and Wendy in the gift shop. They were surveying two more goths as they made their purchases (two freshly painted jars, one puma shirt, and one panther shirt). “Gruncle Stan, can I—”

The goths fell on their knees exultantly. “ALL HAIL YOUR DARK GRACE!”

Mabel squeezed her temples. “Not these guys again . . .” she said disgustedly. “Gruncle Stan, would it be okay if I stopped painting the jars? The paint fumes are making my headache worse.”

“But we need more of those, Mabel Syrup. They’re selling like goth cakes. And you’re the best at making them.”

“But my head is killing me . . . Besides, if we don’t have them in stock, can’t you just charge a higher price because of like . . . supply and demand? Also a delivery surcharge?”

Stan opened his mouth to reply. And then he shut it again. Wheels were turning in his mind. Wheels on a veritable printing press. It was brilliant! Inspired! Genius!

“Have I told you lately that I love you, Mabel Syrup?”

“So I can stop?”

“Well . . . Alright then, you little gremlin. You’re lucky I like you,” he said with gruff indulgence. Then, gesturing at the still kowtowing goths, he asked, “I suppose these guys aren’t helping improve that headache much? Okay . . . We might have enough of the jars for a while anyway (if Dipper ever shows back up), so I guess you can take the day off. Go have a bath or something. Maybe put some bubbles and oils and other . . . feminine frivolities in it. You females like that kinda stuff, right?”

Wendy shrugged at the register. “I take showers.”

“That is so hot . . .” one of the goths said.

“And that is a five dollar mark up,” Wendy countered breezily.

“Aw, man!”

Stan patted his great-niece on the shoulder. “You’ll feel better after that.”

“Okay . . .” And Mabel shuffled upstairs.

****

A death knell of a ringtone, and a pleasant read was grudgingly interrupted.

“Si?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I have procured a private flight for you.” This was said hastily in Spanish.

“Si?”

“It will arrive at Richmond in less than two hours. I hope . . . I hope that is acceptable. It is the best that I could do.”

“Si . . . You may live a little longer.” And the man with hard, sharp features terminated the call.

His partner laughed. “Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. I thought that was a nice touch. One should always remind the people in one’s life that one is thinking of them.”

****

Crossing the threshold, Dipper tentatively bid Norman, “W-welcome to the Mystery—”

An explosion of light and smoke! “WELCOME TO THE MYSTERY SHACK!”

“Gah!” Norman jumped back into Dipper. Detoby jumped clear through the wall.

“BE AMAZED! Miracles and oddities await! Only ten dollars per tour!”

“Gruncle Stan!” Dipper protested. “This isn’t a customer. This is my friend! And those smoke bombs take forever to clean up; stop using them inside the Shack!”

Lifting his eyepatch to get a better look at the timid Medium—and sensibly so (smoke bombing him and then lifting an eyepatch at him did not help matters in the timidity department)—Stan said, “Huh. Y’know, I was beginning to think you’d made him up.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that boost to my self-esteem,” Dipper muttered.

“What do they call you, kid?” the older man genially asked Norman. “Paintbrush?”

Detoby gasped. {How did I not think of that for you, Bugaboo?! It’s even better than Ecelkcelk!}

Dipper groaned, “Gruncle Stan! His name is Norman. Stop picking on him.”

“Hey, I’m just funning the new kid, Dipping Sauce. Welcome to the Mystery Shack, Paintbrush,” Stan said heartily to Norman. “Any associate of Dipper’s is an associate of mine.”

“Th-thanks, Mister Pines,” the Medium said shyly.

“And we have a special, reduced price of nine dollars,” Stan added quickly. “For all friends—”

“His family fed me,” Dipper cut in. “The entry fee has been covered.”

“All _nine_ _dollars_ of it?” Stan demanded incredulously. “What? They serve you a gourmet lunch?”

Nodding, his great-nephew countered, “I’m pretty sure there were portobello mushrooms in it.”

“Seriously?”

“M-Mom has us all on Dad’s d-diet,” Norman explained.

“And you both ate them? _Mushrooms_? A _fungus_? Which grows on _dead_ _things_?”

“This from Johnny McBeetsfordinner. Those grow on Russian serf tears,” Dipper retorted. “Better dead than beet red. But they weren’t half-bad, actually. The portobellos, I mean.”

“Well, if they can afford that, they can easily afford the—”

“The fee is _covered_!” And Dipper slipped an arm around Norman’s shoulder to usher him away as quickly as was possible. Norman didn’t resist. He was too stunned and elated to resist.

“Well, the two-souvenir min—”

“_Waived_!” Dipper shouted over his shoulder.

With a sigh, Stan reentered the gift shop and slouched against the counter. “I miss the old, pushover Dipper.”

Wendy didn’t even look up from her magazine. “Don’t think we ever had one of those.”

“Now he stands up to me all the time. Like a man. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad to see him toughening up, but . . . They rise up against you so fast . . .” he said wistfully.

“Just nature’s way, I guess,” she said aloofly. “One day, they’re bouncing on their father’s knee. And the next, they’re challenging him to a death match for the patriarchy of the clan and control of the family lumber mill. Why do you think my dad is head of the Corduroy clan?”

Stan looked at her, utterly aghast. “Is that . . . You can’t be serious.”

“Pff! Of course I’m not,” she snorted. “No one could beat granddad Corduroy.”

Meanwhile, in the museum portion of the Mystery Shack, Dipper muttered, “Sorry about that.”

“For what?” Norman asked blankly.

“My Gruncle Stan and . . . See, normally he isn’t so embarrassing and . . .” Dipper reconsidered his assertion. “Well, no. He is always this embarrassing, actually.”

“It’s alright,” Norman assured his friend quickly. “I’ve had worse nicknames than ‘Paintbrush’. Shut up, Detoby,” he added to the side. “S-so all this . . . Do I get a tour f-from you?”

“You, um, want the tourist tour or the insider tour?”

“Why not both?”

“Okay. Just . . . just let me know if you, um, s-see anything that really interests you. Okay? Alright . . .” Clearing his throat, Dipper then launched himself into the razzle routine. “Gentleman and Gentleghost, I invite you to gaze upon some of the most astounding artifacts ever discovered! Mystery resides in the Mystery Shack, because we have here s-some of the . . . some of . . . _Dang it_! I can’t do it with you _staring_ at me like that!” he declared, all flustered and blushing.

{No! No! Tell him to keep going! This is side-splitting!}

Norman strove valiantly not to laugh. “Aw, c’mon! Don’t stop!”

“It feels _weird_.”

“No, it’s _great_,” Norman insisted. “You just need like a little eyepatch, too. Maybe a fez, because fezes are cool.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No! I would never—okay, yeah, maybe a _little_.”

{Tell him your mother paid good portobellos, so he better start doing the vaudevillian! Make this monkey dance!}

Norman nearly choked at that one.

“What?” Dipper demanded suspiciously.

“D-Detoby says . . . He says to d-_dance_, _monkey_!”

Crossing his arms, Dipper pouted, “You guys suck.”

When Norman finally regained his composure (it took a while—every time he looked at Dipper, Detoby whispered, {Dance, monkey!} and set him off again), he asked, “So is everything in here real?”

“Well, for a given value of ‘real’ . . .” the behatted boy said uncertainly. “I’m starting to think that Sascrotch in the corner really is a _real_ stuffed sasquatch my Guncle Stan put a pair of briefs on.”

“Why?”

“Apparently people either don’t believe real paranormal stuff, or it freaks them the heck out. But they’ll pay to see that thing,” he said with an incredulous gesture at the Sascrotch. “I don’t get it, but the same thing happened when I captured the Gremloblin. No one believed it was real until it broke their brains with nightmares, and then it didn’t matter.”

“And the Six-Pack-a-Lope?” Norman asked.

“Completely fake. But jackalopes are real.”

{No! Really? I always thought those were an urban legend. Or a rural legend, at any rate,} Detoby added with a quick honk of his spectral horn.

“Well, they only actually have their antlers during the mating season,” Dipper explained after the Medium had transmitted the question. “Which lasts like three weeks at the max. Then they fall off. So the rest of the time, they look and act like normal rabbits—though, let me tell you, they get _aggressive_ during mating season if you wander onto their territory . . . The really strange thing is that they decompose almost overnight. The antlers, I mean. During the last mating season, I snagged one. And by the next day, it had crumbled into dirt. Just regular dirt.”

“What about that pterodactyl?” Norman asked.

“Well, that’s plastic. But there are some hibernating in amber in a deep mine that’s not too far from here—Han Solo in carbonite kinda thing. Except real.”

“Are there _other_ dinosaurs? Like _brontosauruses_?” Norman asked excitedly. “Did you _ride_ one? Can we go back there so _I_ can ride one?”

{Bronto-what-now?}

“No, because it turns out _those_ never actually existed. Little Foot didn’t just lose his parents; everyone he ever knew and ever loved was retroactively erased from existence,” Dipper said flatly.

“Oh . . .” Norman said sadly. “I think a part of my childhood just died forever . . .”

{Little Foot?} Detoby repeated.

“From a movie . . . What about the other dinosaurs, though? Can I ride one of those?”

“We had to seal the entrance. Besides, can you imagine dinosaurs getting loose in Gravity Falls?”

“I guess . . . I guess it is for the greater good,” Norman sighed. “What about—”

From above, a voice shrilled, “DIPSTICK! DID YOU USE ALL MY SPARKLEBERRY BODY LOTION?!”

Dipper blanched. He tried to smile nonchalantly, but that just wasn’t physically possible.

Norman cleared his throat. “W-was that, um, your sis—”

“Yes. Try to ignore her,” Dipper said quickly.

“AGAIN?!”

“IT’S—so s-sorry about this—IT’S IN THE DRAWER UNDER THE SINK!”

A moment of silence followed. Norman asked, “So . . . Did you use all of it?”

“N-no!”

“IT’S LIKE HALF GONE, YOU STUPID DIPSTICK! I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH MY STUFF!”

Norman raised an eyebrow at his friend.

“What?! I didn’t use _all_ of it!” Dipper protested, his face reddening. “Just, like . . . _some_ of it . . .”

{Half of it, to be precise,} Detoby said wryly. The Medium couldn’t help but smile.

“My skin gets _dry_, alright? And they don’t make _man_ body lotion, so I have to use hers!”

“You _have_ to use _sparkleberry_ body lotion?”

“It’s the _only_ kind we have! Besides, it smells nice. I don’t have to defend myself!” he declared, though he was defensive about it and blushed a bright red anyway. “Stop judging me.”

The behatted boy then launched back into the tour, covering every exhibit in the museum with the official spiel and his own commentary. Both the Medium and the Jokergeist hung on every word. They gasped, they laughed, and they couldn’t decide which was more fantastic on one or two exhibits—the razzle or the facts behind them. The Canopic Jar of Seth particularly interested them, because it had a kind of ghostly aura around it (despite Dipper’s assertion that it could not _possibly_ be a real ancient Old Egyptian artifact).

“Gruncle Stan got it from some guy named Al Noma-something. He had a _truckload_ of them.”

“Weird . . . What about the contents?” Norman asked.

“There aren’t any. I think. I’ve . . . never actually checked. Could Detoby—”

{I am not touching that. I will have nothing to do with Egyptian curses.}

Norman snorted. “C’mon, Detoby. What’s it gonna do to you? You’re already dead.”

{So I’m your mineshaft canary, is that it?}

“Basically, yeah. You’re the spooky mook.”

{Nope. Not doing it. Whatever is in there will _not_ be disturbed by _me_.}

“Killjoy.”

{Well then, opening it can be done by _you_, Bugaboo.}

“He . . . says he won’t do it,” Norman fibbed.

{Uh huh. That’s what I thought.}

“Well . . . It’s not real, so it doesn’t matter,” Dipper stated.

“What about the victims?”

“One collected bugs, another worked in the reptile house of a zoo, the last was Greenpeace and thought it would be a good idea to release a bunch of predatory animals from another zoo. Not exactly unforeseeable or mysterious. The last guy who got crushed was just . . . unlucky.”

“Weird, though . . .”

Dipper swallowed anxiously. “Does, um, _anything_ _else_ strike you as weird in here?”

“Not that we haven’t seen,” Norman answered at once. “What’s next?”

“Er. The gift shop, I guess.” And a few seconds later, he gestured into it. “Pretty self-explanatory. Lots of stuff we sale. Gruncle Stan you already know.”

“Reduced price coughcough(ofonepercent)cough on all merchandise!”

“Um, yeah. That’s Wendy at the register—”

The redhead waved. “Hey.”

“H-hey, Wendy!” Dipper said automatically (and slightly goofily). “And Soos is the indispensable guy restocking the vending dispensers.”

“Aw. Dude, I heart you too,” Soos replied amiably.

“Special one-time offer for friends of staff!” Stan added desperately.

“That’s all there is to see here,” Dipper said, immediately steering his friend away.

“Wait! He hasn’t even had a chance to look at any of our merchandise!” Stan protested. “There’s prob’ly something he can’t live without!”

Dipper accelerated the steering away (which, again, Norman did not fight). “Moving on!”

{Pretty dapper flapper for the casher,} the Jokergeist commented with an ineffective nudge to the Medium’s ribs. {Just like that actress last night, eh? Gams up to her eyeballs.}

“Um . . . I think Detoby is saying that girl at the register is cute. Something about ‘gams’?”

“Wendy?” Dipper asked. And then he sighed. “_Yeah_ . . . Isn’t she just _perfect_? Beautiful and graceful and smart and funny and nice . . .”

It was like Norman’s bloodstream was suddenly flooded with ice. “Oh. Y-you . . . er, like her?”

“Who wouldn’t? Beautiful and graceful and smart and funny and nice and so, _so_ cool . . .”

“Y-yeah . . . She sounds . . . g-great,” Norman forced himself to say. He found himself inexplicably hating her redheaded guts, so he asked quickly, “Where to next?”

Dipper led a cursory circuit of the cabin’s residential parts next, but kept a close eye on Norman’s reactions. On the main floor—in the living room, kitchen, and parlor, in the break room and the storage room—Norman made no mention of anything out of the ordinary (beyond the ordinarily extraordinary décor, such as the dinosaur skull that served as an end table). In the basement—complete with Stan’s bedroom and office—Norman remarked that Detoby really liked the pinball machine; Dipper was so preoccupied that he forgot to mention that the copier could also function as a cloning machine. Finally, gambling that Mabel was still in the bathroom (and therefore unable to throw things at them), Dipper led Norman and Detoby up to the attic.

“S-so, um . . . This is my room,” he said hopefully. Almost desperately. This was the last room, and probably the most likely room. If they weren’t here, then . . . they weren’t here . . . He wanted to shout, “Please, say they’re here! _Please_!”

“Two beds?” Norman asked.

“Oh, it’s mine and Mabel’s. N-not as nice as yours, but . . .”

“You guys share a bedroom? Isn’t that a little awkward with the brother-sister thing?”

“W-we always have,” Dipper replied, his heart sinking. “Our p-parents . . .” he swallowed thickly. “They s-sorta always made us share a room. It’d be w-weird not to share now. But we can always . . . er, put up some screens later . . . or whatever . . .”

Detoby stared at the behatted boy, murmured in Norman’s ear, {Does he suddenly seem a little strange to you, Bugaboo? Like . . . he might cry?}

Norman asked, “You . . . alright?”

Dipper tried to swallow. He was trying to hold it together, but he felt like he was unraveling. “Sure. But . . . doesn’t something seem a little w-_weird_ maybe in this room?”

“Uh. You’d know better than I would,” Norman answered uncertainly. “It’s _your_ room.”

Dipper wanted to stop himself; he wanted to just let it go and pretend nothing had happened. Pretend everything was normal. Pretend he wasn’t falling apart inside. Shrug it all off like it was nothing unexpected—because it _wasn’t_ unexpected! Sure, he had told himself not to think about this scenario, and told himself they were here because they had to be here _they_ _just_ _had_ _to_ _be_! Because Mabel . . . Mabel and he . . .

But he had still known it was possible they wouldn’t be here. As much as he hated knowing it . . .

So Dipper couldn’t just let it go. He couldn’t just pretend, and he couldn’t just stop himself from asking pointblank, “There aren’t _any_ ghosts in here? In the whole Shack?”

“J-just Detoby. But I don’t think he counts—”

{Hey!}

“Well, he already knows about you,” Norman contested.

“Oh . . .” the behatted boy’s head sagged. “D-dang it . . .” he cursed quietly.

“Dipper? W-what’s wrong?”

In a whirl, the behatted boy spun away from the Medium and the Jokergeist to pound his fist against the wall. “Dang it!” He shouted out in impotent fury. “Darn it! D-_damn it_! _DAMN_ _IT_!”

{Coffin Varnish! What’s gotten into him?!}

“Dipper!” Norman cried out in alarm.

But the behatted boy sank to his knees, cradling his fist. “Damn it . . . Ow . . . _Stupid_ . . .”

The Medium gulped. “W-what . . . was that all about?” he asked gently.

“Nothing . . . Not like I didn’t already know,” Dipper replied almost evenly. But not quite evenly. “I just . . . I just didn’t wanna believe it. Stupid of me . . . Sorry about that . . .” He stood up shakily and turned back around, massaging his hand. No tears ran down his cheeks—he wouldn’t let them, because brothers don’t cry—but his eyes looked wet. “S-sorry . . . It’s nothing . . .”

{It most obviously is _not_ nothing,} Detoby countered.

Carefully, Norman asked, “Whose ghost . . . _isn’t_ here?”

“My . . . My parents . . .” Dipper admitted.

Norman blinked. “They’re dead? W-what?”

“Yeah. And . . . gone. Dead and gone, I guess. But I was . . . I _knew_ they were gone, but I was still hoping that maybe their ghosts—”

The bathroom door slammed open, and Mabel stood before them both. Not in her goth outfit, but in some of her darker old clothes. Her hair was still damp and her face was scrubbed clean, but her eyes were hard and focused right at Dipper. “What are you talking about? Why would their ghosts _not_ be here?”

Disconcerted, her brother stammered, “M-_Mabel_! How long have you been listening there?”

Pointing at Norman, Mabel demanded, “Why is he saying their ghosts aren’t here?”

“B-because . . .” Dipper sighed defeatedly. “I didn’t want you to find out about this until I had _maybe_ some good news for you . . . Didn’t want to get your hopes up for nothing . . .”

“What are you talking about?” Mabel almost yelled.

“Mabel, this is my new friend. He can . . . He’s a Medium. He can see and talk to ghosts.”

Spinning around, his sister glared at Norman.

“Um . . . H-hi?” the Medium ventured awkwardly.

“And you say there’s _no_ _one_ here but us? No ghosts?” Mabel challenged him.

“W-well . . . There _is_ a ghost that c-came with me, but . . . No. No one else.”

For a moment, it wasn’t clear if Mabel was going to break down and cry, or kick and scream. Implode or explode. She just stood there and trembled.

“S-sorry . . .”

“Liar. You’re a _liar_. A _lying_, fake, buttfaced, _lying_, creepbag, _liar_!”

{Whoa!}

“Mabel,” Dipper said in quiet reproach. “He’s not a liar.”

Rounding back on her brother, she shrilled, “_You_ _believe_ _him_?!”

“Yeah. I do.”

“I can’t . . . You can’t . . .” With a visible effort, she restrained herself. “Alright. I get it. _He’s_ what was so important all week, right? Y-you were hanging out with him and investigating him, right? Because _what_ _if_? What if he _really_ is psychic and sees ghosts? We c-could talk with M-Mom and Dad again.”

“I’m n-not psychic,” Norman mumbled.

“So you _want_ it to be true. I _get_ that. I do—_I get it_,” Mabel continued in a brittle, cracking tone. “And so he was able to t-trick you. No shame there. It happens to the best of us.”

“Mabel, he didn’t trick me,” Dipper affirmed.

“Oh, poor _little_ brother,” she said pityingly. “Poor, _deluded_ _little_ brother. It’s my fault, really, since I wasn’t there to—”

“He _didn’t_ trick me,” Dipper repeated, louder this time.

“Then _why_ do you believe him when he’s obviously lying? It doesn’t make sense,” Mabel stated. “They _wouldn’t_ l-leave us. Use your c-common sense, bro-bro! It’s g-_gotta_ be a lie!”

{We might have to extricate you, Bugaboo,} Detoby urged the boy Medium. {You do not want to be on the claw end of a wild bearcat. Trust me on that one, if nothing else.}

With a sweeping gesture at Norman’s gravity-defying spikes, Mabel harangued her brother, “What about his _hair_? I thought we don’t trust anyone whose hair is bigger than their head. Look at it! It’s all _whoosh_! Doesn’t that remind you of _another_ fake psychic?”

“Why would he trick me, Mabel?” Dipper reasoned. “What could he possibly gain?”

“Maybe . . . maybe he’s working with Gideon! This is exactly the kind of sick stunt he’d try! And I’m sure all fake psychics know each other! They’re in on it together to get the Mystery Shack and then force me to marry him!”

{Yep. She got us—got us with her common sense right there,} the Jokergeist said sarcastically.

“He has nothing to do with Gideon. Norman is the real deal, Mabel,” Dipper countered quietly.

“_NORMAN_?!” she repeated incredulously.

Dipper instantly regretted his words.

“His name is _Norman_?! Your name is _Norman_?!” she demanded of the Medium. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?!”

“N-Norman Babcock,” he answered shyly.

“So he’s not a fake _psychic_; he’s a fake _human_!” Mabel surmised.

Norman gaped. “W-_what_?”

“Did Jeff send you? Does he really think we’re so stupid he could use the same name twice?!”

“W-who’s _Jeff_?” Norman stammered.

“Aha! _The stammer of guilt_!” Mabel shouted triumphantly.

“N-no!”

“And there it is again!”

In exasperation, Dipper burst out, “He’s not Gnomes!”

“W-_what_?!” Norman exclaimed.

{_What_?!} Detoby echoed him (though no one else could hear).

“Then how do you explain _this_?!” And Mabel seized Norman’s sweater and ripped it open.

“H-_hey_!” he protested, squirming in her grip.

Dipper awarded the situation the rare double-face-palm. “Mabel . . .” he groaned.

“Um . . . Explain this?!” And she seized his shirt and pulled it up, exposing Norman’s thin belly and chest. He was an outie.

The Medium blushed crimson. “S-_stop_!”

“Uh . . .” Mabel poked him. He wasn’t pinkish spandex stretched over shoulder-stacked Gnomes; just pinkish skin over a stomach.

He writhed out of her grip and pulled his shirt back down immediately. The blush had tinted even his ears by now. It didn’t help that the Jokergeist was guffawing uncontrollably.

“Okay . . . So maybe he’s a . . . a _tall_ Gnome that _shaved_ its beard,” Mabel posited.

“There’s no such thing as a tall Gnome,” Dipper said flatly. “That’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re an _oxymoron_!” Mabel retorted. “Or a _lamby_moron! If you believe this fake—”

“He’s not a fake, Mabel!” Dipper shouted over her. “Mom and Dad are just _gone_! They’re _gone_ and they’re n-_not_ coming back,” he said—softly now, for she had fallen silent again. “They’re n-_not_ . . . And it’s t-time we accepted that—both of us . . . Even if we h-_hate_ it, it’s the—”

“_Hate_ _it_?!” Mabel repeated shrilly. “You don’t even _care_! You don’t even _miss_ _them_!”

“Mabel, you know that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is! You haven’t even c-cried! _Not_ _once_! _Not_ _even_ _one time_!”

Quietly, Dipper answered, “Because you never stop crying. If I start—”

“Ha! As if you _cared_ about _me_,” she laughed bitterly.

“Mabel—”

“No!” she cut him off angrily. “And y’know what, Dipstick? I’d rather cry _all_ _the_ _time_ than not feel anything _at_ _all_! Than care more about investigating some fake kid who says he can see ghosts, but has some fakey excuse for why he can’t see Mom and Dad! As if . . . they’d _ever_ leave us!” she choked. “They’re p-prob’ly here right now, and he could see them if he weren’t some _big_, _fat_ _fake_!”

“Norman’s not a fake, Mabel,” Dipper said simply. “Mom and Dad just . . . they moved on—”

SLAP!

It happened so suddenly and so swiftly that Dipper never saw it coming. For a few seconds, staggering back into his bed, he wasn’t even sure what it had been. He touched his cheek numbly, and was almost surprised to find that it stung. But the eventual realization that Mabel—his twin sister, whom he had been trying so hard to help—had slapped him, stung more. Much more.

Norman and Detoby both stood there, eyes and mouths wide open. Just as stunned. What else was there to say? What else could they possibly say or do in that instant?

And Mabel, for her part, trembled as she said. “They’d _never_ do that to us . . . _To_ _me_ . . .”

The tears began to flow again. Tears of anger. Tears of sorrow. Tears of anguish.

“M-Mabel . . .”

“_I hate you_!” she screamed. “I _hate_ you, you stupid, heartless Dipstick!”

And then, sobbing, she ran from the room. Ran from the attic. Ran from the Mystery Shack.

****

The airplane that finally touched down in the non-commercial portion of the Richmond airport was a sleek little jet—nothing large, but capable of making good speed. Once the pilot had set the landing crew to refueling it, an approach was made to the two only passengers.

“Sorry to keep you two waiting. Had to get down from Martha’s Vineyard, and there was one heck of a headwind to fight.” From the cocky swagger to the aviator sunglasses to the bright epaulets above a crisp white shirt, everything about the pilot was stereotypical flyboy. Everything but her gender.

The man with hard, sharp features cleared his throat and replied in only lightly-accented English. “Si. It was a long inconvenience—one which may hinder our work.”

“Not much I can do about that, I’m sorry to tell you,” she replied without the lease remorse. “Takes time to cross a country. That’s just a fact.”

Though irritated, he answered, “Si. I suppose. At what local time do you expect to arrive?”

“Late evening. Maybe about ten, if we don’t have to fight much turbulence. You two have an appointment?”

“Si. One that an associate of ours is dying to make.”

“Ehehehehehe!” the soft, round man laughed.

The pilot eyed them both. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to miss that. Let’s get aboard.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. My colleague asks if there are any of those delightful ginger cookies aboard.”

****

Floating in the attic bedroom, Detoby faltered. {Well , um . . . _That_ happened.}

Norman was still in shock beside the Jokergeist, and Dipper was seated on the bed nearby, yet an immeasurable distance away. All this . . . Just another mess Norman had caused with his stupid “gift”. Dense—so incredibly dense!—not to see it before now . . . It all seemed so obvious . . . See the dead; miss the obvious. What a great “gift” or “ability” or what-the-fecund-heck-ever . . .

So this was all the Medium’s fault . . . Like always. Again and again . . . Did Dipper hate him now? Hate him for making all this happen?

“. . . s-sorry . . .”

Dipper looked up in a daze. “Huh? Sorry? For what?”

“F-for all _this_. I _should’ve_ r-realized—”

“How could you have? I didn’t tell you anything,” Dipper replied simply. “It’s not your fault.”

{And how!} Detoby agreed. {This is _not_ on you, Bugaboo. If anything, it’s on him.}

“It’s _my_ fault . . .” Dipper admitted heavily.

{That’s what I’m saying!}

“Maybe if I’d . . . if I’d told you before . . .”

Diffidently, Norman asked, “Why d-didn’t you? Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course! I just . . . I didn’t want you to think I was using you.”

“Using me?”

“For this. I didn’t want you to think everything—the movies and the arcade and the Multibear—had been a setup just so . . . so Mabel and me could talk with our parents again. Mabel and I. Whatever. Screw grammar. Not like it matters. I didn’t want you to think that,” Dipper resumed throatily. “Because I _do_ wanna be friends. I _do_ think you’re really cool.”

In Norman’s chest, his heart leapt. Funny how it did that, even now . . .

“So I didn’t tell you. Or Mabel—I didn’t tell her about you, because I thought . . .” Dipper made a hopeless gesture. “Why get her hopes up, y’know? Why risk disappointing her and making everything even worse before I know for sure that we can talk to them again? Man, was I wrong . . .”

{Well, what if the bearcat hadn’t overheard you two now? Doesn’t he realize he would’ve still had to go through all this with her later?} Detoby pointed out.

But the Medium ignored him. He let his friend talk. That was what was important now.

“So I . . . I figured, if I bring you over here, you’ll either see them and . . . And I guess they’d help me to explain everything. I dunno. Everything would work out then. And if not . . .” Dipper faltered. “Maybe I thought I could keep it together. Just pretend everything was normal, and no one’d need to be hurt . . . What would it change, y’know? Just play it cool, and everyone’ll be good. But I’m _such_ an _idiot_,” Dipper snorted miserably. “_Of_ _course_ I couldn’t play it cool . . . Not when I was hoping . . . s-so much . . . Anyway, what I’m trying to say is . . . Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry. Do you hate me?”

Taking a breath, Norman declared, “I don’t h-_hate_ you. I _wish_ you had just told me to begin with. ‘Cause if we’re partners, we have to t-_trust_ each other, right?”

“Yeah. Do you . . . Do _you_ f-feel like I used you?” Dipper asked ruefully.

“Maybe a little,” Norman conceded. “But I understand why you did it. It’s . . . understandable. Maybe I’d have done the same in your situation? I dunno . . .”

Quietly, Dipper apologized, “I’m sorry. Does that mean you can forgive me?”

Part of Norman wanted to say something like: “It means ‘maybe’.” or “I will. Eventually.” However, looking at his friend—so miserable and remorseful—Norman just didn’t have that spite in him. He couldn’t be angry with the behatted boy; not now. Maybe not ever. It would be like kicking a kitten.

The Medium sighed. He sat on the edge of the bed, perpendicular to his friend, and tentatively patted Dipper’s shoulder. An awkward but comforting bro-touch. Pat-pat. “Sure. I forgive you . . .”

The behatted boy sniffed. “Th-thanks, man . . . I don’t deserve it . . .”

Detoby chuckled. {Aw . . . Foxhole buddies in the battle of the sexes . . .}

Norman wasn’t sure what that meant, so he interpreted it as meaning that he’d been touching Dipper for too long, and he quickly withdrew his hand. He didn’t quite snatch it away, but almost.

“S-so . . . Your parents are dead . . . S-_sorry_ to hear that . . .” the Medium offered ineffectually. Really, there’s very little emotional comfort of an effective nature for that kind of loss.

“Y-yeah. A little over a month ago. In a car accident.”

“O-oh!” Norman exclaimed; that touched a deep wound of his own. “That’s really r-rough . . . Y’know . . . They might . . . All this p-proves is that they’re not _here_ _now_. They c-_could_ be somewhere other than here. Ghosts _aren’t_ tied to one place like a lot of people think. Sure, they might have a place they like better than anywhere else, but they can go anywhere as easily as you or me.”

{Heck, easier than you or he. We can do this!} And Detoby floated up through the roof and back down again. Just because he could. And maybe to cheer them up, though it didn’t really work.

“Where would they go, then?” Dipper asked. “Our old, empty house? Or the cemetery? To that stretch of highway where they d-died? Would they . . . would they really prefer those over being with their kids?”

“P-probably not, but people are sometimes obsessive or . . . Well, no, p-probably not,” Norman finished lamely.

“I appreciate what you’re tying to do for me, man,” Dipper said sincerely. “Really, I do . . . But the truth is just . . . Mom and Dad have moved on. I g-gotta accept that, even if I hate it.”

“Yeah . . . Not easy, though,” Norman agreed mournfully. “Knowing someone you cared about would rather move on than . . . W-well . . .” He choked back some of his own emotion.

“Where do they go?” Dipper asked. “We always say ‘move on’ or ‘pass on’ or ‘pass over’, but . . . What does that even mean? Where do they go? Where do _we_ go?”

Norman shrugged, confessing honestly, “I don’t know. No one does really, not even ghosts . . . Some people _think_ they have an idea, and they _hope_ they’re right, but . . . Someone told me once it’s like crossing a river, only you can’t see the other side until you’re across—a foggy river . . . And the crossing is one-way only, so no one comes back to tell us. No one I’ve ever met or heard of, at least,” he added truthfully. “I guess _someone_ might know, but I don’t think so; I don’t think _anyone_ knows for certain.”

{Crossing a foggy river . . .} Detoby pondered to himself. {Yeah . . . That feels right to me . . .}

Confused, Dipper asked, “But don’t ghosts come back from . . . wherever? From the other side?”

“No, they don’t _come_ _back_ from anywhere; it’s more like they just didn’t ever leave here . . . Right, Detoby?”

{Me? I was completely blooey in the gutter. For a bit, at least. Then it felt like I was . . . sleepy. Kept fighting the urge to sleep, because I knew I was dying—I reckon I even said ‘I don’t want to go’ . . . Eventually, I lost consciousness. I was in the apples, as we used to say in the trenches. I think that’s a Frog-speak expression, but . . . Then I just sorta woke up over my body. Swore for a long while after that, but I figure no one’s going to hold that against a dead man,} the Jokergeist quipped.

“You don’t recall going anywhere?”

{Nope. No long, dark tunnels—other than my daily life—with lights at the end. No voices . . .} Detoby looked down at his horn and rubber chicken. {Just me and my friends here.}

The boy Medium transmitted all of this to Dipper, before adding, “Some of them have told me there’s a pull, like an attraction to whatever’s on the other side . . . Sometimes like a familiar voice—Grandma says she can almost hear Grandpa, but she’s still got . . . well, something strong enough tying her here, something stronger than that pull . . .”

“What is it?”

“Um . . . well, _I’m_ that something. It’s m-me. She says it’s her duty to look out for me.”

“Oh . . . Sorry for prying,” Dipper said. “I guess that was a really personal question.”

“It’s okay.”

“Does Detoby have anything like that?”

“Keeping him here? Did I tell you already it’s to be a comedian—make a whole room laugh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dipper recalled. “But I actually meant . . . about a pull?”

The Jokergeist considered that. {Hmm . . . Just a nagging sense that I belong somewhere else. But, then again, I’ve _always_ had that. My whole life. For a while, I was even _married_ to one.}

With a roll of his eyes, Norman transmitted all of it. Even the spouse joke.

“And . . . Well, while I’m apologizing,” Dipper said with a halfhearted laugh, “I’m sorry you had to see . . . _all_ _that_ earlier. With my sister. Real sorry for what she said to you, too . . .”

“It’s alright,” Norman assured him quickly. “Not the first time I’ve been called a fake and a liar. Besides, she was . . . she was upset. She didn’t mean what she said. I know that.”

“No, she didn’t,” Dipper agreed. “But still, it had to hurt . . . It hurt _me_,” he admitted throatily.

A moment of silence hung in the room, with the behatted boy trying to rein in his emotions, and Norman and Detoby both pretending not to notice that he was losing. That’s how guys show sympathy.

Eventually, however, Dipper stated, “I d-_do_ miss them, y’know . . . My parents. So much . . .”

“Yeah,” Norman said vaguely.

“And the day we heard about them, I d-_did_ cry . . . I ran into the woods, and I cried for hours . . . I guess that’s not a very manly thing to admit. The Manotaurs would probably . . . Well, screw them . . . Mabel probably didn’t notice because she was with Gruncle Stan at the time, and I’d never seen him cry before in my life . . . Heh. I didn’t even think it was _physically_ possible . . .” Dipper said, either smiling or grimacing at the memory. “But when I came back, she was . . . she was _still_ crying . . . She cried all night, and the next day, and the day after that, and the day of the funeral. And she’s been crying ever since.”

“That’s normal grief though. Right? Just how she expresses it,” Norman suggested.

“Except she _never_ _stops_ _crying_!” Dipper burst out. “And I get that; I do! And I feel the same way! But I can’t cry! Doesn’t she understand that? I c-can’t cry . . . It’s not that I don’t care. It hurts more than anything has ever hurt in my life! But I just c-can’t . . .”

Looking away, Norman said, “But you can. If you need to. You can cry. I won’t tell anyone or think any less of you. Neither will Detoby.”

The Jokergeist shrugged. {If he has to, but real men don’t cry.}

“He says . . . to just let it out.”

{I did not. Stop lying about what I say.}

“If I s-_start_, though . . . Who’s going to look out for M-Mabel?” Dipper asked, rhetorical and raw. “I’m her _brother_. That’s what brothers _do_—they look out for their sisters . . . That’s _my_ duty, I guess . . . She can’t look out for herself when her eyes are always so full of tears. So I c-can’t . . . I _can’t_ start crying, or I won’t be able to look out for her . . . Or me, or anyone . . . I’m her _brother_; it’s my _duty_ . . .”

“Speaking of words that sound dirty . . .” Norman tried to joke.

Dipper sniffed. “_Everyone_ makes that joke . . . It’s not even funny . . .”

“Yeah. It’s not . . . Must be hard, feeling like you’re alone under all that pressure.”

“Y-yeah . . .”

{Not that you would have _any_ _idea_ how that feels, Mister NorMedium-Bridge-Between-Worlds,} Detoby pointed out sardonically yet supportively.

“I can understand why you’d want me to do the Medium thing for her. Help her get over this, clear some of those tears from her eyes so she can take care of herself. Get some of that weight off your shoulders—”

“It’s not like that . . .” Dipper interjected. “The pressure is . . . whatever, y’know? Part of the job. I want her to stop crying because . . . because it’s like she’s _not_ _Mabel_ anymore! I _do_ _miss_ Mom and Dad; I want them back _so_ _much_ . . . But . . . But more than _anything_, I just w-want . . . _I want my sister back_!”

And with that, Dipper’s own internal dam finally broke.

Silently, Norman shifted over to slip an arm around his friend’s shoulder. It wasn’t rejected.

Detoby floated there for an instant, evidently uncomfortable. In the end, he cleared his throat and pointed through the wall. {I’ll just, um, maybe give you fellas . . . Since you don’t seem to need—}

The Medium nodded at him, and the Jokergeist exited through the wall.

****

****

Reality being definitively established as the biggest of jerks (and it being further established that the Universe is merely an extension of said biggest of jerks—metaphorically speaking, it could be seen as its crudely-drawn-vulgarity-and-typo-riddled-tattoo-covered arm), it should be saddening, but not surprising, that some people wind up as its punching bag. And Mabel was apparently the current favorite, because the hits just kept on coming.

She exhausted the energy to run before she had even reached the main road. Not eating will do that to a person. But, bowed under all her emotional turmoil, she continued to drag herself forward. Maybe movement felt comforting, or maybe it just wasn’t possible to remain in the Mystery Shack—not with buttheaded Dipstick and his fakey friend there—but either way, she progressed slowly into town. She had no destination in mind, but where else could she go?

Unfortunately, this took her within easy sight of the Tent of Telepathy and the Gleeful home (owners and operators of said rival to the Mystery Shack) while Gideon happened to be in the yard. “MABEL!” he drawl-shouted. “MY DARK CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE!”

“Oh, _blarg_ . . .”

Gideon came hustling towards her as fast as his widdle legs and new assortment of black leather and belt buckles would allow. It wasn’t very fast or quiet, but goths did not evolve for speed or stealth (Mabel might have tried to flee him otherwise, but her garb was also on the prohibitively heavy side). Evolutionarily speaking, goths’ development in the fashion world (according to designer Charl D’Arvin) favored the frightening away of predators over escaping them.

“Wait up, my black licorice! These pants . . . do not breathe . . . in the _slightest_ . . .” he huffed.

“Leave me alone,” Mabel said listlessly. “I’m so not in the mood, and my head is killing me.”

“That’s just . . . the existential ennui,” he assured her as he caught his breath. “All part of your new and . . . _tantalizing_ role as Queen of the Night. I read about it online. It’s normal for new vampires to feel that way. And it said the best cure is a little neck biting! And I just happen to have some neck . . .”

Mabel didn’t slacken her pace, but she lacked the energy to really increase it. “I’ve gone goth, not vampire.”

Waving dismissively, Gideon said, “Goth, vampire; potato, tomato; Germany, Austria. It’s all the same difference. Especially since we can still nibble on each other’s necks anyway!” he added eagerly.

“Ew . . . Gross . . .”

“Now, don’t knock it until you try it, ‘cause you might just like it.”

“What is it gonna take to get you to leave me alone?”

“I will _never_ leave you, my love,” he whispered.

With a stamp, Mabel spun to face him directly. “Go away, you little creep!”

“Yes! Play hard to get!”

Shoving him away, she snapped, “I’m not playing hard to get!”

“Yes! Get _rough_ with me! Goths like it _rough_!”

Mabel grimaced in revulsion and stepped back. She was trembling again—trembling with anger. “I don’t know how else to say it! I’ve tried being nice, but that doesn’t seem to get through your stupid thick head of hair. No one else seems to get it, either. So I’m saying it slowly now: LEAVE! ME! ALONE!”

“Yes! Shout—”

Mabel seized him by his pompadour.

“_Not_ _the_ _hair_! Ow! Ow! That’s _too_ rough! _Too_ _rough_! The hair is out of bounds!”

She lifted upward.

“Owowokay! You’re em-oh!-tional right nowow! And aie!’m sorry for not being sensitive to that! Ow! Stop! I’ll let you alone! I’ll let you al-oh!oh!oh!-ne!”

Mabel released his hair and shoved him away for good measure before continuing on without another word (but with a twitching eye).

“I’ll just . . . give you some space for now! Let you get the hair-grabby-ness out of your system! But I’ll be right here to talk and/or kiss when you come back!”

Mabel gritted her teeth and walked on. Cutting through the town square, however, brought her face-to-face with Pacifica and the two minions.

“Mabel hon!” Pacifica larked. “I see you’re not wearing your ugly sweater with skulls and spiders today. Just one of your regular ugly sweaters.” Finger snap. Minion cackles.

Mabel tried to shoulder past them, but they closed ranks against her—blocking her path.

“I’m told you make all that stuff yourself. Why, exactly, would you go out of your way to make something so ugly?” Pacifica asked with mock-curiosity.

“Leave me alone.” Every second around the blonde was like a sledgehammer to the skull.

“Are you just so bad at it that you can’t make anything that isn’t ugly?”

“_Leave_ _me_ _alone_,” Mabel repeated tensely. The pounding was getting worse.

“Or do you hope its ugliness will distract everyone from your—”

With a shove to the blonde, Mabel shouted, “I said LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The minions caught Pacifica before she toppled over on her Little Miss Hooker Heels. One of them snapped, “What’s your problem, psycho?!”

“_My_ problem?!” Mabel demanded incredulously. “What’s _your_ problem?! _Leave_ _me_ _alone_!” And, seething, she cut across the street and stalked away from them.

Unfortunately, this took her in front of a grocery store just as the deposed Grand Goth emerged with a beet in each hand—eating them like apples. An old adage says that a person is what they eat, which (if true) means this one moment would probably explain everything about the beet-like personality of the deposed Grand Goth (aka Kennedy Jenkins, aka Ebony Ravenspath, aka Her/Him).

Seeing Mabel, the deposed Grand Goth hissed—literally hissed—and then retreated back into the protective shadows of an alley. Shielding one’s skin from direct sunlight for years makes it very susceptible to sunburns.

“Oh, what the flipping flip now?!” Mabel burst out.

“Poseur! Heretic! Fraud!” the deposed Grand Goth snarled from the shadows. And then hissed, “Anathema!”

“That’s anathe_Mabel_, to you!”

“Not even bothering to wear your poseur rags today? Already had your feel of _my_ dark order? What group will you ruin now, O Duchess of Douchebags? Maybe the cheerleaders?”

“Oh, that is it!” Mabel snapped. Turning to the town as a whole, she spread her arms wide in a come-at-me-bro-esque gesture of head-throbbing rage. She shouted out, “ANYONE ELSE WANNA TAKE A SHOT AT MABEL?! C’MON!”

As people stopped to stare, Pacifica said loudly, “Wow! Look at that crazy girl! She’s probably like deranged! Someone should call the Sheriff before like she _bites_ someone!”

Murmurs of agreement followed. Mobs are easily swayed.

The deposed Grand Goth shouted, “Indeed! Earlier this week, she even ripped the piercings from my face!”

The passers-by gasped aloud.

Stepping forward dramatically, Pacifica asked, “But what else could we expect from the sister of the Back-to-School Tackler?! I know for like a fact that her brother is the criminal pictured in the papers! It’s a whole family of deranged crazy persons!”

“What scandal!” someone exclaimed.

“They could be a danger to us all!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

“SERIOUSLY?!” Mabel demanded, screaming as loud as her head was pounding. “Why weren’t any of you buttfaces paying attention when this buttface goth and this shrew-buttface Pacifica were bullying me?! _Like_ _two_ _minutes_ _ago_?!”

“Aha!” Pacifica declared triumphantly, “You heard her! Her family tries to justify attacking helpless victims by blaming the helpless victims! You know who else does that? _Nazis and terrorists_!”

Burying her face in her hands, Mabel murmured, “Oh for the love of—”

“What scandal!”

“I hate nazis and terrorists!”

“Think of the children! Won’t someone please think of the children?!”

“That’s right! These monsters are in the public schools with our children!”

“Sucking up our tax dollars!”

“Tackling our children! Y’know, probably!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

Growling, “I’m done with this . . .” to herself, Mabel shoved her way out of the town square.

“Aha!” The deposed Grand Goth further roused the rabble. “See! She is a tackler herself!”

“What a scandal!”

“Now _we_ are the victims, too!”

“I’m telling you all, we should start an angry mob! To the Home Despot! They have pitchforks and torches!”

“They have torches there?”

“Luau torches, yes.”

“Ooo . . . And I can check the price on some light fixtures I’ve been meaning to replace!”

“To the Home Despot!”

Fortunately, the mob fizzled out for a number of reasons. First, it being autumn, there were no more luau torches in stock. Second, pitchforks were deemed prohibitively expensive. And third, most of the people in the mob were soon too distracted by the sale on light fixtures to remember why they had even gone to Home Despot in the first place. Therefore, nothing was stormed and set on fire that day. With the exception of the lighting aisle, but that fire was entirely accidental.

For her part, Mabel stormed on, muttering to herself, “Stupid Grand Goth—Ebony Jenkins what’s-his/her-bucket . . . Stupid Pacifica and her minions . . . Stupid Gideon . . . buttfaces, all of them. Hsss . . . Oh, my head . . .” she groaned squeezing it between her hands. “None of them leaving me alone always having to make me miserable . . . And stupid fake Norman and stupid idiot Dipstick! This is _all_ _their_ _fault_! If they hadn’t . . . hadn’t said those terrible things . . . I could understand everyone else being all terrible, but . . . But D-Dipper, too? Why’s he g-gotta be making it worse for me, too?! Making me feel nothing but—”

**LONELINESS**

Mabel froze in her tracks. She was falling sideways, but so was everything else. Spinning while remaining perfectly still. She looked up and saw the door. The door with the plaque that read “#13”. “The door from my dreams . . .”

Yes. I’ve been waiting for you here for a very long time now.

“But that’s . . . You’re a _door_.”

Yes. And I’m also your friend. Your only friend in the world.

“But . . . This is crazy. I’m going crazy . . .”

No, what’s crazy is how you’ve been treated. But I can make that better. I can take away—

**TAKE** **AWAY**

—all your sadness. And I will, because I’m your friend.

Mabel squeezed her temples again. That throbbing in her skull felt like it was getting worse. Made it so hard to focus . . . So hard to think . . .

About why this wasn’t a good . . . About why she shouldn’t . . . About why . . .

It’s about time you came to see an old friend. Let an old friend help you make everything better.

“Make everything better?” Mabel repeated through gritted teeth. “You can . . . do that?”

Yes. Just come over here and turn the knob, and I will make everything better.

**FOREVER**

To her own surprise, Mabel took a step. She hadn’t really meant to, and yet she had. And as she watched her feet, she took another and another. They were shaky and faltering, and felt almost as if they were holding back hard but pulling forward harder. As if she didn’t want to go forward at all, and yet wanted to go forward just a little more than not at all.

I will make everything better. Just turn the knob. That’s all you have to do first.

Looking up at the door—the door that was jerking closer and closer—Mabel wanted to laugh. Or maybe to cry. Everything was just so surreal. She wasn’t sure how she felt. She felt so many things. Contradictory things, even. Like a desire to open the door, and a desire to keep it shut forever.

The only thing she knew for certain was that it felt like she was moving underwater. Or moving through stopped time.

What you really want is for someone to make everything better, isn’t that right?

“Y-yeah!” Mabel admitted. The answer felt like it was being sucked right past her lips—sucked right out of her soul. Like she couldn’t help but be completely, totally, brutally honest. “S-so much . . .”

You want to be alone? You want them all to just leave you alone?

“I want . . . I w-want them all to know how it feels!” Mabel practically sobbed. “To feel so lonely you could just cry all day! To feel like nobody cares that you’re being ripped apart inside! Going crazy! That’s what I w-want . . . Stupid Grand Goth, and Pacifica and her minions, and Gideon . . . and stupid fake-psychic Norman and . . . and even D-Dipper! I w-want . . . I wish they all knew how it feels to just wanna be alone . . . Then would disappear forever—that everyone’d then leave me alone forever . . .”

**LONELINESS**

Interesting. Alright. Before I take you away—

**TAKE AWAY**

—I will give you what you’ve wished for. Consider it a token of my gratitude.

Wiping her eyes angrily, Mabel choked out, “But that’s . . . that’s a _terrible_ thing to wish . . .” Something was dredging all this ugliness out of her, drawing it like crude oil up from out of the ground. And she did not like it; it did not feel good. Even though it did. Perhaps especially because it did.

It’s only what they deserve.

“N-no . . . I don’t want . . . Not even they deserve—”

Look at me.

Mabel looked up, and blinked. She was already standing before the door. “H-how—”

Trust me. I will make everything better for both of us.

**FOREVER**

Just open the door for an old friend. Do it _now_.

Mabel’s hand fluttered a little. She hesitated. “I th-think I shouldn’t . . .”

Turn the knob. That’s all you have to do. And I will make everything better.

“Better?” Her fingers brushed against the knob. “B-but . . .”

Do it. Now. And you will see your parents again.

Mabel turned the knob and pushed . . .


	9. Chapter 9

One cause can have multiple effects, all seemingly unrelated. One pebble in a pond can produce thousands of ripples. And those ripples eventually touch everything in the pond, even if subtly. So a single ripple in reality—in the metaphorical pond of reality—can touch (and therefore change) _everything_ in subtle ways. And all this change comes from one pulse of energy. One driving thought acting upon the world in seemingly unrelated ways.

****

Bertram Pincus was glaring malevolently (and impotently) as the owner of The Sweet Tooth handed out free samples of almond brittle. As was fairly common for the unoccupied DDS, he was debating within himself the hypothetical righteousness of killing one who tempts others into sin. He still couldn’t find justification for murder that wasn’t negated by the New Testament and its lousy, divinely-enlightened “Love One Another” injunction. It was enough to drive a ghost to want to drink root beer.

And then a wave of cold washed over him like a frown from on high, and he retreated back into the supply room (where he used to keep his office Bible), repeating, {Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Thy wisdom is absolute and thy commandments beyond criticism! I’ll try harder to love my anothers! I promise!}

****

Grandmother Chiu had her head in the koi pond, watching the lazy movements of her fish from mere inches away. Their scales shimmered and their easy grace always astounded her. It was as if they floated through crystal—like clouds in a perfect sky. And overhead, the surface was a kaleidoscope. Later, she might drift slowly through the garden, passing through flowers to view their interiors and the complex life-web of their roots. She had never really existed in three dimensions until she died.

And then, suddenly, she felt as if winter itself had breathed on her, and she shivered. An instinct made her think of her grandchildren, and she suddenly had to know that they were safe. She flew to Candy’s room, and only relaxed when she saw Candy and Grenda were still there. Watching youtube clips of boyband performances. It was strange, but she had inexplicably been terrified for them . . .

****

Courtney was among several newly acquired friends, hanging out at the house of one of them now that her intentions of being a senior-class cheerleader had been made known to the right people. And the rightest of them all (a strapping young specimen who wasn’t named Jacques de Footballville, but might as well have been) was standing right next to her.

Kiss her.

He wasn’t sure where the impulse came from, but he picked it up and ran with it. Exactly sixteen seconds later (thirteen of which were accompanied by raucous hooting and whooping), he pulled back. She, reluctantly, released the lapels of his letterman jacket and smoothed them out. Any excuse to touch his chest again . . . His firm, sculpted chest . . .

“That was . . . nice.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “We should maybe do it more often.”

“You wanna maybe . . . go see that chick flick you were talking about earlier?”

“You were listening!” she said excitedly. “That’s so sweet!”

“Only to you, babe. How about Friday? Maybe we could even go out someplace to eat?”

In her head, she went “Hell yeah!” but out loud she said, “Hmm . . . I don’t think I’m doing anything else that evening . . . Alright, I guess.”

****

Missus Hutchinson was leaning forward in her seat, and Elaine was leaning forward beside her. This they did, because Hospital Lawyer Miguel Secsito was leaning closer to Doctor Joanne Soltree. Though she whispered some faint, halfhearted protest against his passionate assurances of love, resistance against his smoldering charisma, his smoky but nonthreatening machismo, and his hot, hot, hot Latin looks was impossible; she yielded to his kiss. Returned it. Damned regulations and protocols that forbade their love, and damned the advice of Philippe Somptueur—she knew in her heart of hearts that Miguel could never be a member of the international prostitution ring! But what she did not know was exactly how she felt for Philippe, or why it was she imagined him as she slipped her hands lower and lower down Miguel’s toned torso. Over his sculpted abs to his—

And suddenly Elaine shuddered. She looked around to try and discover why, wondering aloud, {Someone just walk on my grave? Because it—not that tramp Ursula! Will she stop at nothing to prevent their love?! Just because she and Miguel used to be engaged before the terrorists kidnapped his sister!}

****

In his office, Buddy Gleeful leaned back in his chair and just smiled. “Another car sold, yes sah! This calls for a celebratory sweet tea, I do declare it does . . . Just, after a couple minutes right here in this here comfortable chair . . . Yeah, I won’t be getting up any time soon . . .”

Look at the photograph.

Buddy glanced at the family portrait on his desk. All smiles—he, his darling wife, and son—everyone positively gleeful as a Gleeful should be. “But she has seemed mighty high-strung of late . . . Perhaps I should surprise her with a relaxing dinner out? Just the two of us . . . like we used to do? Maybe Friday would be good—No. She’ll expect that, for she is a cunning ole fox. Thursday, then . . . Now, where did I put the phone number of The Club?”

****

Robert Whitehawk was gently reeling in another catch. As he had done a thousand times before, he took it slow, but not too slow. Firmness was key. One does not have to rush if one is firmly in control. Now, pulling the spectral fish from the water, he took the flopping creature gently but firmly in hand and slipped the hook from its pumping mouth.

But before the Fisherghost could calm it, a blast of cold shook them both to the core. He even dropped the fish, and it immediately dove back into the water that had been its home for more years than anyone could guess. This was the first time such a thing had ever happened. Now, he looked towards the town, from whence the blast had originated, and muttered, {What in the hell?}

****

As he handed a wet washcloth to Dipper, Norman asked, “S-so . . . um . . . F-feel better?”

The behatted boy hiccupped, then answered. “Y-yeah . . . Man, you must t*hic*nk I’m a complete baby . . . Bawling li*hic* that . . .”

“Well, you had a lot of p-pent up emotion,” Norman replied awkwardly.

“Yeah . . . What do I do wi*hic*th this?”

“Uh. You’re supposed to put it over your eyes. It reduces swelling around . . . er, the eyes. Something my sis—I mean, s-something _Courtney_ taught me,” Norman caught himself, before quickly adding, “Because of allergies.”

“You get allergies?”

“Yes,” Norman lied.

“It doesn’t have anyth*hic*ng to do with you crying sometimes?”

“N-no. Only rarely, if ever. Manly tears, though. Like yours.”

“Ha!” Dipper choked out. “Yeah . . . Li*hic* this . . . _Real_ manly . . .”

“Yeah . . .” the Medium sorta laughed.

Silence ensued (except for the odd hiccup). Norman found himself looking down at his shoes. Incidentally, so did Dipper; both were seemingly fixated on their shoes. It spared them having to meet each other’s gaze.

Norman inhaled slowly, then finally said, “M-maybe I should . . . Um. M-maybe I should g-go? Not that I’m upset, or mad, or anything,” he rushed to say. “B-but . . . Yeah . . .”

“Yeah, I*hic* get what you’re saying . . .” Dipper replied quietly. “I probably have to go paint some stup*hic*d jars anyway . . .”

“S-so, I’ll . . . maybe s-see you tomorrow?” Norman ventured shyly.

Dipper nodded instantly. “Sure. Of course.”

“Okay! Okay . . . So . . .” Norman took a step back. “See ya then, I guess.”

“See ya then.”

Norman was just crossing the threshold when a sudden chill made him shudder uncontrollably.

It’s coming for you.

The color drained from the face of the Medium, and he spun around.

“You okay?” Dipper asked.

“Um . . . D-did you say something just now?”

“No. Maybe you heard something from downstairs?” Dipper suggested.

“D-downstairs . . . Yeah, that must be it,” Norman muttered. “So, um . . . Bye.”

He exited the Mystery Shack without a second’s delay, not even stopping when Stan shouted, “That deal still stands! Tell your friends to visit us! Tell your family! Tell people you meet in the street!”

Not even Detoby honking down at him from on high slowed Norman’s pace; he knew Detoby could catch up effortlessly.

{The strangest thing just happened,} the Jokergeist said as he flew down beside the Medium. {There I was, floating on the roof, when—}

“Could we, um, not talk for a bit?” Norman interrupted diffidently.

{Everything copacetic with you, Bugaboo?}

“I just . . . I just need a little time to think, if that’s okay?”

{Well, sure. Whatever you need. But don’t let me forget to tell you what just happened to me.}

“Okay, Detoby . . .” Norman answered, his mind already wandering.

****

Writing on an iPad is a slow, laborious process, but this fit the Multibear’s writing style. He was a talker (and a growler) when he wrote. It helped him to remain focused.

“In conclusion . . . as I seldom need . . . to keep exact hours . . . (being a bear . . . and therefore capable of telling time . . . by the position of the sun) . . . and have a personal computing device . . . with a clock feature . . . should I ever need the exact time . . . I thank you, but decline . . . your offer to buy cheap wristwatches . . . Please remove me from your mailing list . . . Sincerely, the Multibear . . .”

One quick review of the message as a whole, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Send.” And he tapped one of his four foreclaws delicately against the screen.

He was just moving to set down the iPad when his whole cave trembled. A flash of cold, like a gust from off a glacier, pierced through even his thick fur. Every head but the alpha-head began to keen! A terrible din that scattered Manotaurs in the midst of their manwich barbeque far below! The iPad slipped from his grip, but its fall was cushioned by no less than three heads and two legs; no damage was done.

“Bear heads! BEAR HEADS!” the alpha-head of the Multibear roared. “BE SILENT!”

They ceased to keen, but some growled and some whimpered nervously.

“I must listen . . . Something does not sound right . . .”

Looking towards the mouth of his cave, he sniffed at the air. All his eight heads sniffed at the air. But the wind did not reach into the depths of his cave—did not carry the scents of the valley to his den.

He heaved himself upright. “This must be investigated further.”

****

In a popular country music radio station (sadly, such things do actually exist) located in Eugene, the weekly contest drawings were taking place. And the DJ was about to draw for the last prize from the drum roller. Her hand was almost in the randomizing contraption.

Spin it one more time.

She paused. She withdrew her hand.

“Something wrong, Billie-Jeanne?” her Producer asked.

“Why don’t we give it one more crank, Billy-Bob? For luck and extra randomality?”

“I’ll give you one more crank for luck and extra randomality,” the Producer retorted playfully.

She countered, “Then I’ll draw one of your organs at random. Actually, it won’t be so random. Crank it, Billy-Bob.”

“You’re the boss, Billie-Jeanne.”

“And don’t you ever forget it, Billy-Bob.”

One extra spin was given, and then the DJ thrust her hand into the drum roller.

“And the lucky winner is?” the Producer asked.

The DJ read the name. “And they reside at . . . Gravity Falls—where the heck?”

“What did they win?”

“Two free tickets to a concert here on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday. So that’d be . . .” the Producer searched his memory. “Drunk Kat and the Arwallers.”

“Ooo! They’re up-and-comers. That’ll be a fun concert. Let’s call them up and let them know they’ve won!”

****

Grand and stately, the faux-Tudor mansion that was the residence of the Governors of Oregon (called Mahonia Hall since its construction in the early 1920s) had seen more than its share of political wheelings and dealings. Yet, despite what conspiracy theorists might think, most plots and machinations are planned not in shadowy underground compounds or even shadowy board rooms, but in brightly lit dining rooms over coffee and perhaps a tastefully arranged tray of snacks. Dark hooded robes are seldom worn; those things are magnets for crumbs.

Now, biting into a cookie with dark chocolate on it, the Governor asked his Executive Secretary, “Anything else that must be done this week?”

“I think that’s everything . . .” the assistant replied attentively. “We have all the town halls set, city meetings scheduled, and committee conferences with key legislative members planned. Remember that it all comes down to a show of good faith with the opposition. Show them you’re willing to meet them half way, and they’ll meet you half way.”

The Governor grunted noncommittally.

“Democracy requires mutual respect and compromise, sir. We don’t accomplish anything by presuming the other side is evil, and even less when we treat them like they are. Their concerns are equally valid, as are their propositions. Even if we disagree with them.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you sound a lot like those annoying shoulder angels in old cartoons?”

“Yessir. All the time, sir. I believe it’s you who says so.”

“Anyone ever tell you that I pay you to be my secretary, and not my shoulder angel?”

“Yessir. All the time, sir. But, as a secretary, I’m excellent at multitasking. I can manage to help you be a better person at the same time I help you be a better governor.”

Another noncommittal grunt. “Well, if there’s nothing else—”

Reelection season is coming.

The Governor closed his mouth pensively.

“What is it, sir?”

“Actually . . . I was just thinking about where we stand on reelection funds.”

“Already? We’re not that far into the term, sir.”

“It’s never too early,” the Governor countered. “We’re not doing anything tomorrow, are we? Let’s arrange a fundraising dinner.”

The Executive Secretary blinked. “On such short notice?”

“Just something small and intimate for some of our closest allies. I’m thinking maybe thirty-forty guests. Fifty tops.”

“But . . . sir . . .”

“You can make that happen, can’t you?”

With a steely glint, the Executive Secretary replied, “Of course I can. But it won’t—”

“Call up the Merediths and invite them. Also the McNaultys, the Florets, the Northwests, the Lis, the Steinbachs . . . You know who to invite; some of our most stalwart contributors. For entertainment we can probably get that chamber music quintet. Hell, if you tell them it’s to help raise money to stop the Republicans from . . . I don’t know. Cutting money for baby panda crutches? Hell, say it’s just to stop the Republicans period, and they’ll probably pay for their own transportation.”

“Sir, that’s what I’m talking about. The Republicans aren’t evil, they’re—”

“So? I believe you have some logistics to plan,” the Governor said with finality. “I’ll personally make some of the invitational calls myself right now.”

With a sigh, the Executive Secretary said, “Yessir . . .”

****

In Portland, a mid-level executive of Amalgamated Consolidations Incorporated was eyeing the regional bottom-line and despairing that it was woefully short of earning her that triple-bonus. Projections were good, but they needed to be better if she was going to get that ivory backscratcher.

She took a shot of whiskey. And then another. “How to boost productivity?”

Torture everyone with a useless conference.

“Now there’s an idea . . . Whiskey, is there any problem you can’t solve?”

Pulling open her laptop, she began composing an email. The gist of it was: all office managers are required to attend a conference in Portland on Friday and Saturday to synergize a boost in business. There were more meaningless buzzwords, of course, but the exact buzzwording is unimportant.

“And . . . send.”

****

In Idaho (a state which Norman and Dipper would almost certainly enjoy visiting thanks solely to the hilariously named Grand Teton National Park), there is a city called Boise (a city which they would probably not enjoy visiting because it is synonymous with the word “boring”).

In Boise, there is a little residential suburb favored by senior citizens.

In this suburb, there is a house where a determinedly spunky widow lives with three cats.

She was chatting to them as she refilled their watering bowls. “Yes, you’re a thirsty little fellow, aren’t you Hotspur? Oh yes, meow mew meow! No need to push, Sir Falstaff, there’s plenty for all . . . Where did Tybalt get to? Oh! Hiding on the chair, you naughty little vampire . . . Well, here’s the water,” and she bent to set it on the ground. Rising back up, she said, “Now, time to see what vile machinations Ursula has stooped to this time to tear Miguel and Joanne ap—”

You left the water running.

She turned to look at the sink, but the tap was turned off. As she had left it.

“Huh. I could have sworn I just heard—”

She stepped straight on Tybalt’s tail. With a yowl, the cat bolted away and she startled straight into the watering bowl. Slipping, she fell onto her hip. There was a flash of consciousness-blinding pain and a sickening crunch of osteoporosis-weakened bone. Her hip was broken.

Others might have been completely incapacitated by such a debilitating injury. But she was determinedly spunky. When she realized she couldn’t stand up, she crawled over to the counter and used her cane to knock her cell phone down onto the ground. It was a slow and excruciating process, but she was old—she was used to things being slow and excruciating.

Her call to her daughter was answered almost immediately. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“I . . . I think I broke my hip . . .”

“You think—oh no! Mom?! Oh no! Um . . . Okay, let’s stay calm! Let’s all just stay calm!”

“I am calm . . .”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, Mom! But it’ll still take me like . . . like f-four hours to get from Gravity Falls to Boise!” the daughter said desperately. “S-so . . . Alright. Here’s what we’re g-gonna do: I’m gonna hang up, then you’re gonna call 911. Okay? Can you do that?”

“I think so . . .”

“Okay. Good. Tell them everything. And tell them to keep your phone with you, alright? Because I’m coming! I’m coming as fast as I can!”

“What about . . . your husband? My granddaughter?”

“They’ll be fine without me for a few days!” the daughter stated in a would-be calm tone. “I’ll, um, call him en route. Explain everything then. Okay, Mom, are you ready? I’m gonna h-hang up now and you gotta call 911. Ready?”

“Okay . . .”

****

Leaning against the railing of her suite’s balcony, the woman who was no longer middle-aged gazed contemplatively at the sea.

It was so . . . filthy . . .

“How can people stand to be in it?” she mused to herself in Spanish. A morbid fascination fixated her on the crowd of Sunday pleasure-seekers wading and swimming in the nearby waves. “It is full of excrement and dead things . . . All accumulated over billions of years . . . Puaj . . .”

She turned away, feeling as if she might need a second rubbing alcohol bath.

“I can afford it, if I really want one. I can afford ten a day with all the money I stole from El C—”

They know where you are.

The woman who was no longer middle-aged froze where she stood.

“But . . . No. They could not possibly . . . They could not . . . They . . .”

She swallowed dryly.

“_Of_ _course_ _they_ _could_, _estupida_! They have . . . _the_ _best_. The man with a nose for finding people. Remember how he tracked you once before already, took you back to El Cartel . . . From Panama . . .”

Looking around the suite, though it was comfortably commodious, she suddenly felt trapped. Claustrophobic. As if he were hiding behind the walls—that man with hard, sharp features like a knife. With his terrifying little partner. That soft, round man who laughed while he killed.

“I must go,” she decided. “Now.”

Her bags were all ready to leave, except for the map. She hastened to fold it, but stopped as she stood over it. The heartland of California lay to the south, along with over thirty million other people—potential witnesses all. Besides, it was the obvious move: disappear in its big cities, among its Hispanics? He would not be shaken by this manoeuver; he would expect it.

“Norte . . . Si . . . That is the way to go. Along this major highway . . . But not for long, no. Not to the major cities of Oregon. He would expect that, too. But he would never expect me to hide here in the midst of the central mountains and forests . . .” she realized. “It is nature, and he would think I would hate her insect-filled dirtiness to hide there . . . And, normally, perhaps I would . . .”

She snatched up her map and folded it neatly back into her meager luggage.

All that remained was a final call downstairs, which she made in English. “This is Missus Tavish. Si, good afternoon, conserje . . . I wish to estend my estay for another three days . . . Si . . . If you come up now, you will find payment waiting for you. It is my hope that this will ensure that no one disturb me for another three days . . . Si, I am eso glad you understand . . . Gracias. Thank you.”

Now, nothing remained of her in this room at all. Nothing but a stack of US dollars on the table. That should ensure a little discretionary time—an extra three days in which to disappear for good.

She crossed paths with no one as she left the hotel. No one noticed her check her car for bombs. Once in her satisfactorily bomb-free car, she drove away unseen. Like she had never been there.

“Norte . . .” she murmured as she merged onto the highway. “Y luego . . . a Oregón.”

****

. . . but there was nothing behind the door.

Mabel heard herself mouth, “Huh?”

Everything seemed to decompress all at once. Time began moving forward again all around her. It was so sudden that she even tottered and fell to her knees for a moment.

She felt . . . dazed. No, she felt dizzy. Very dizzy. Nauseous dizzy. Almost throw up dizzy.

It was like her skull had been pumped full of water—pumped well past the point of saturation, pumped almost to the point of bursting—and now it was all draining slowly out her ears.

And she heard sounds now—birdsong, dogs barking, the voices of people not far from her, cars. A second ago, everything had been dead silence. The silence that must exist inside a vacuum. Funny how she hadn’t really noticed until now . . . Maybe because she’d been talking to the voices behind the—

Mabel looked back to the door. But there was still nothing behind it. Just a long, dark room.

“I don’t . . . I don’t understand . . .” she murmured. She leaned forward to look inside, but it was just like an unlit storage closet running the length of the building. It was too dark to see the rear wall, but it was obviously empty. “Why would—who? I don’t understand . . .”

No one answered her.

“I don’t understand . . .”

No answer. No one was there to answer her—no one to speak to her, explain things to her . . . No one to make everything better . . .

It almost made Mabel want to cry again, or maybe to scream and hit something . . . Almost . . . Truthfully, however, she just felt too drained for any of that. Drained and stupid.

“What was all this even for? Maybe I am just going nuts . . . Least my headache is finally starting to go away . . .”

She heaved herself upright and pulled the door shut, but it bounced off the frame. She tried again to the same result. It was like the door was too big to fit in the frame all of a sudden; no matter how often or how hard she jerked it back, it wouldn’t fully fit. Jiggling the knob didn’t help. Pushing it against the hinges to close that space didn’t help either. The door just refused to shut.

“Oh . . . whatever!” Mabel huffed in exasperation. “It’s just a stupid door anyway . . .”

And, leaving it partially ajar, she shuffled off wearily. She was tired and she wanted to go home.

But behind her, the door creaked slowly open—a rectangle of perfect blackness in the blandly pastel building. A bit of mist flowed out of it, like from a freezer. Oddly enough, however, no one seemed to notice it at all.

No one except the deposed Grand Goth when she/he walked past with a handful of beets.

**LONELINESS**

****

Looking down from four-fifths up Mount Immovable (perhaps the “top of it” in the poetic sense, if not the literal one), the Multibear surveyed the valley. A strange smell was on the wind—a wind that was quickening, a wind that was growing colder even as he stood there . . .

Wisps of fog rode the wind . . .

Then strands of fog . . .

Then shrouds of fog . . .

One of the heads growled in alarm. Its discontent spread, until all eight were keening together. Even as they looked on, fog was rising in the valley. Rising faster than should be physically possible.

“It is worse than I feared . . .” the Multibear realized. “_Another leech_. And someone has gone and freed it . . . Bear Heads! Be silent!” he roared. “This . . . is more than the Children can yet handle; such might even be beyond my powers. Why did the spirits not warn me of this?!”

Already the valley was vanishing under a blanket of fog. Soon it would be swallowed up entirely.

The Multibear heaved an angry sigh. “There is no time to waste on blame now. No, I must warn the Medium and the Warrior—must warn all the Children!”

But before any of his eight legs could take another step, a gale blew up at him from the valley with such ferocity that he had to retreat a step! It stung his noses, his ears, his eyes!

When he opened them again, a door frame stood before him. It was open into blackness.

Seven heads growled in unison. “You!” the alpha-head snarled. “But . . . no! You cannot be h—”

From within the darkness, through the gaping frame, something grasped at the Multibear! Impossibly long and impossibly thin! A hand as pale as a human corpse! An arm as thin as a skeleton, but garbed in tattered black! Long! So long! Reaching like death!

The Multibear dodged back instinctively, back down into the defenses of his cave! He reared and roared, his claws and fangs ready to rip and kill anything that tried to breach this—_his_—narrow passage!

But the arm did not grasp at him. It sunk its fingers effortlessly into the rock of the cave and—No, not _rock_! Only the mouth of the cave was physical rock; the rest was . . .

“NO!” the Multibear bellowed.

It was not a collapse that happened. The mouth of the cave simply vanished, as though it had never existed. Only the cave—the pocket between worlds—remained. Disconnected from the physical, but apart from the spiritual.

The Multibear had never had much dealings with doors, they being a human invention, but he recognized the long, squealing creek of a door shutting. And he knew what it now meant.

“I’m trapped in here until that leech is stopped . . . Bull elks! The _Children_ . . . But maybe . . .”

Relocating his iPad, he activated it.

“Still power in it: 100% and charging . . . Good, goo—no internet connection . . .” The Multibear sighed heavily. “Bull elks . . . There is nothing I can do to help them . . . _Nothing_ . . .”

And, since there are few other occupations in a pocket dimension disconnected from the time of the physical world, he started a game of Angry Birds.

He could be there a while. He could technically be there longer than forever . . .

****

{This is one bizarro clime . . .} Detoby said with a little shiver. {All this fog out of nowhere . . . Reminds me of the trenches . . . Those, uh, were _not_ pleasant places to be . . .}

Norman grunted, “Y-yeah . . .” The chill was so unexpected that he had pulled up his hood before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his red hoodie. But he still felt chilled.

{We never knew what was waiting for us through the fog. Never knew if the Jerries were about to launch an offensive, or try to gas us, or anything . . . Muffles sound, too . . . Makes me feel like I’m being watched. About to be ambushed . . . Jeepers Creepers, I hate this fog,} Detoby said vehemently.

“Y-yeah . . . Um. Maybe it would help if you stop talking about things watching us?”

{Good idea. Maybe if I tell some . . . I can’t really think of any jokes right now . . . Maybe a song?}

“No thanks . . . I wouldn’t be able to appreciate them,” Norman added. “Not being from—”

He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

{Bugaboo? Something wrong with you?} Detoby looked, but he saw nothing ahead but the road fading into the fog. There were trees of the forest on either side, but nothing else that he could see. {What? What is it?}

“D-don’t you hear that?” the Medium whispered.

{Hear what?}

“_That_!” To his ears, it was a high rattle, then a grinding noise, followed by a long screech. Distant. Unearthly. Familiar, but so horrible he couldn’t possibly have heard anything like it ever before. Like a door opening, but no door that should ever be opened.

{I . . . don’t hear annyyythhhhiiiiinnnnnng . . . Mmmmmmmaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyybbbbbbbbbb—}

Norman stared. He could still see the Jokergeist’s lips moving, but no sound was coming out. And everything felt . . . skewed, somehow; as though everything in reality was stumbling around and stretching out—

It passed the breaking point. Reality snapped, and then it unraveled.

He was no longer standing on a road in the forest. He was standing in the midst of a gray waste encircled by roiling fog. The ground was perfectly level beneath him—like concrete, perhaps? But overhead and all around, there was nothing but a churning barrier of shapeless fog.

“W-where am I?”

Tendrils of fog began to form. Dozens of them, swirling around him . . .

“You are nowhere.”

Norman spun around, but was completely alone. “Who said that?”

“I did.”

The tendrils were taking shape . . .

Norman spun around again, but still found no one. “Where are you?”

“I am not nowhere with you. But that is unimportant. ”

“W-what?”

A shape like arms and hands . . .

“Do you remember what I told you, Child of Spirits and Words? About holding your ‘sunbrella’? About holding close to your friend?”

“What are you talking ab—”

“Do not listen to how I speak. Listen to what I say. This is important, and there’s little time.”

Norman gulped. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“Do not let fear of your feelings drive you away from him. Do not let fear of anything drive you away from your friend. Or from any friend you have.”

“I . . . I don’t really have any other friends,” Norman replied honestly.

“Is that what you think?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Then you must make more. One in particular, the Child of Rainbows and Heart. You know her.”

“I do?”

“But both her rainbows and her heart are hidden behind a black cloud. One that is partially of her own making. Help her dispel it. Such will not be easy, but such will be well worth the effort.”

Norman shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why can’t you just—”

The tendrils shot forward, seizing the Medium from all around in cold, clammy hands! He yelped and he struggled, but they held him tight! So tight, he could feel the cold being squeezed into his body!

“This has happened to you before, and more than [Bugaboo?] once.”

“Help me!” Norman cried out.

“I have. As much [Bugaboo!] as I am able.”

The fog directly ahead began to part, like a curtain being drawn aside! And through it reached another hand! A terrifyingly familiar one! Impossibly long and impossibly thin! Garbed in ragged black! As Norman watched helplessly, it reached for him! Reached for everyone!

“Help me! _Please_!”

“I cannot. I [Norman! I’m right here!] am not nowhere with you. Soon, I will even be pushed out of somewhere.”

“No! Don’t go!” the Medium sobbed. “It’s g-gonna get me!”

“Remember [I’m here! Snap out of it!] what I have said, and you might not be lost.”

“HELP!”

“Farewell, Child of [It’s not real! Damn you, Bugaboo, it’s _not_ _real_!] Spirits and Words.”

“N-not real?” Norman stammered.

The hand was reaching closer—reaching for his face! Inches away!

“[That’s right! Not real! Now snap out of it! _Please_, snap out of it!]”

Scrunching his eyes shut, the boy Medium choked out, “It’s not real . . . It’s not real . . .”

“[{That’s right!}]”

Through gritted teeth, he chanted like a protective mantra, “It’s not real . . . It’s not real . . .”

Not yet, it isn’t. But it will be. It’s coming for you.

“C-coming for me?!” Norman gagged.

[{Nothing’s coming for you, Bugaboo! And if there is, it’s gonna have to get through me and my rubber chicken first! Whatever you’re seeing, it _isn’t_ _real_!}]

It’s coming for everyone.

“N-not real!” Norma sobbed desperately. “Not real! Not real!”

See you soon.

[{That’s right! Not real! Not real!}]

“Not real! Not real!”

{Not real! Not real!}

Gulping, Norman dared to open one eye. There were no hands made of fog holding him down; he was kneeling in the middle of a dirt road, and the Jokergeist’s friendly, homely face—pale with worry (and general ghostliness)—was inches from his own. “D-Detoby?”

{How many fingers am I holding up?}

“Y-you’re holding up your horn . . .”

{Hotsy-Totsy, you’re okay!} And, in relief, the Jokergeist tried to hug the Medium; it didn’t work, but the sentiment was appreciated. {Bugaboo, what in hell was happening to you? You were acting like you did in that school store.}

“A v-vision, I think . . .” Norman replied uncertainly. He rubbed his forehead, and it came back slick with sweat. “Got them like this once—a warning, maybe? I think s-something’s coming, Detoby.”

{What is?}

“I . . . I don’t know. But it’s bad . . . Worse than Aggie, I think.”

Detoby floated there for a second, looking around in all directions. {You think it has something to do with this fog?}

“I don’t know.”

{Did you see what it looked like? In this vision?}

“Not really.”

{Does it . . . maybe have something to do with that door on Main Street?}

“I don’t know, Detoby,” Norman answered emphatically. “I just don’t.”

{Well . . . whatever it is . . .} the Jokergeist said slowly and seriously. {The most prudent course of action right now is to get you back home—get you somewhere safe first.}

Rising to his feet, Norman declared faintly, “I wanna tell Dipper.”

{Okay. Over the telephone from your home.}

“But—”

{Bugaboo, do not make me pull rank on you,} Detoby pleaded. {This is not negotiable.}

“Rank?” Norman snorted in spite of himself.

{I was a Sergeant,} Detoby said definitively. {And I’m an adult. Home. Now. That’s an order.}

“Do I gotta salute you, or what?”

{No, but I do expect a quick march,} Detoby stated—not joking for once—with a little shudder. {This fog gives me the heebie-jeebies . . . I want both of us out of it five minutes ago. C’mon. Hup! Hup!}

“Yessir,” Norman replied sarcastically. But he still double-timed it all the way home.

****

The bell above the gift shop door chimed, but it was only Mabel who slumped in. A few wisps of fog followed her over the threshold.

Wendy nodded. Soos nodded. Both said, “Hambone.”

“Hey . . .”

Stan, for his part, looked up worriedly from his calculation sheet (the most recent estimate said he would need at least $22,398 a year for the gremlins). “Feel better after your walk, Mabel Syrup?”

“Sure . . . I’m gonna go pass out on the couch now . . .” she slurred in passing (or slumping). And, true to her word, she went and faceplanted on the couch.

“Um. Soos?” Stan called. “Do you know how to check a pulse? Go make sure Mabel has one.”

And then (the instant the second hand ticked over the twelve), Wendy larked, “Quitting time!”

Stan heaved a monumental sigh. “Which makes seven customers all week . . .”

“That’s not bad,” Wendy offered.

Eyeing her grimly, Stan repeated, “Not bad? You have any idea how business works? It costs money to employ you and Soos, keep the electricity and water flowing, maintain a supply of souvenirs, repair the infrastructure . . . Overhead—because it keeps a roof overhead. We brought in maybe $300. That doesn’t even cover what I gotta pay you and Soos (whether you’re worth it or not—FYI, you’re not), let alone living expenses. Feeding the gremlins, for one.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Wendy said at the door.

“Before, maybe it wasn’t. The seasonal drop-off in rubes was tolerable when it was just me I had to feed. But now I gotta provide for them, too . . .” Stan said weightily. “We need more customers . . . Okay, executive decision time,” he announced with steel in his voice. “Wendy, don’t bother coming in next weekend!”

“You’re . . . firing me? You sure you want to do that? Might make me want to start talking about certain events which I have happened to witness . . .” Wendy lilted.

“No, I’m not firing you; I’m giving you homework. You’re gonna make us a website.”

“I thought you’re hemorrhaging cash.”

Stan shrugged. “It’s an investment. We’re gonna try it. The point is I want a website. I don’t care what it takes, I want it up and running ASAP. And I want it to be big. That’s priority number one for you, before school, before being in here, before friends, before eating and sleeping. Don’t bother showing up until it’s done. Or at least ready to show me.”

“Uh huh,” Wendy replied dubiously. “I don’t know anything about web design.”

“You’re a teenager. It’s internet stuff.”

“So, what, do you know shuffleboard because you’re old?”

With the pride of a professional, Stan replied, “I once hustled an entire senior citizens cruise with shuffleboard alone. The key is to keep their margaritas coming.”

“You do realize I’ll have actual homework, right?” Wendy pointed out. “Plus, I sorta have this thing in Salem next Saturday. Soos, too . . .”

“Not anymore! And, to incentivize you, you get a full week-end’s pay once this is finished. If you finish early, you get this weekend off.”

“Uh huh . . . Well, I guess I can give it a try when I get a moment. Tambry can help maybe . . .”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Whatever. See you later tonight, Soos?” she called.

“Dude, you know it!” Soos answered from the living room. “By the way, I can’t find any pulse. But Hambone is breathing, so I’m a little confused in here . . .”

“What else is new?” Stan grumbled. “What’re you two even doing?”

“File that one under: Business comma Not Stan’s.” And Wendy walked out of the Shack with a “Whoa! Wicked fog out here . . .”

****

“Dad! The internet isn’t working!”

“I know, Courtney!” Perry shouted back upstairs.

“Not even on my phone!”

“I’m trying to figure it out, Courtney!” He answered in exasperation.

It was the strangest thing. The modem was plugged in and apparently functioning, but any connection to the internet was sporadic at best. It only seemed to work adequately if one sat right by the modem. And there was major interference over the phones, as well . . .

Perry shrugged. “Must be some kinda electrical disturbance with this weird weather . . .”

The front door opened and Norman slipped in.

“Hey, son. Have a good day?”

Sweeping back his hood, Norman stammered, “Y-yeah . . .” and nothing else.

“Have fun with your friend?”

“S-sure . . .”

“What’d you—” But Perry stopped and sighed; Norman was already pulling out his phone. “Good luck with that. There’s some sorta interference. Electrical, maybe.”

“Oh . . . Dang . . . No bars. So what now, Detoby?”

Perry opened his mouth to ask his son who that was, but then closed it again. It was a ghost. Who else would it be? It was always a ghost.

{Maybe . . . Talk with him tomorrow?} the Jokergeist suggested. {Sleeping on it first might help you make sense of it.}

“I g-guess . . . Not much choice now, is there?}

{I’m sure everything’s fine.}

“Yeah . . .” Norman plodded up the stairs.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” his father called after him.

“Okay.”

With a sigh of defeat, Perry went back to his emails. “Hmm . . . Hey, Sweetie! Apparently I’ll have to go to Portland on Friday for a weekend business trip!”

“That’s nice!” Sandra called from the kitchen.

“You want to take a little weekend trip? Just the two of us?”

“That sounds sweet! But don’t think that’ll get you out of your diet!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it . . .” he muttered.

From above, Courtney shouted, “Dad!”

“I know! I’m trying to fix it!”

****

A screech of tires! The blare of a car horn! A near collision, then a motorist shouting, “Hey, kid! You trying to get yourself flattened?! What’re you even doing out here?! It’s like almost eleven!”

Staggering around the vehicle, the deposed Grand Goth clutched at the driver’s side door. His/her face was a stark shade of white that had nothing to do with makeup, for most of it had been streaked and smudged by sweat and tears. “Please, you must aid me! It pursues me!”

“What . . . um, pursues you?”

“It’s right there!” Pointing shakily back into the foggy night from whence she/he had fled, he/she cried, “There! _There_! Do you not see it?! The man-thing in the suit!”

The motorist glanced in the direction indicated, but saw nothing. “Are you . . . on drugs?”

**COMING CLOSER**

The deposed Grand Goth let out a ragged shriek, “It comes! Can you not hear it?!”

“Hear what? There’s just you and me here.”

“The thing! The man-thing, but not a man! In the suit! Over there!”

“There’s noth—Get away from me, you drug fiend!” And the motorist accelerated away.

“NO! PLEASE!” Frantic waves and shouts did nothing to recall the vehicle. It was enough to make one despair. “W-why? Why won’t . . . _anyone_ . . . aid me?”

Approaching footsteps—slow and deliberate, but covering impossibly long strides . . .

They never stopped . . . Always coming . . . Always coming!

The deposed Grand Goth whimpered, “Go away . . . Please just leave me alone . . .”

**NEVER AGAIN**

The deposed Grand Goth turned and kept running!

**LONELINESS**


	10. Chapter 10

The Mystery Shack.

Cabin flooring stretched off in every direction, with taxidermied (and maybe not taxidermied) creatures rising above it. Smells of age—of secrets and wisdom—and, somehow, of showmanship.

“Where did Dipper go?”

Detoby pointed. {I’d ask the bearcat.}

On a small pedestal, with the claws of a cat and standing the size of a bear, was the girl. Mabel. She was glaring down at Norman. “Fake.”

“W-where’s Dipper?” Timid.

“You’re a fake.”

Desperate. “I’m n-not!”

“Yes, you are. And it doesn’t matter if you are or not. No one will ever like you.”

Fog was rising around them.

“D-Dipper does.”

“Dipper is with Wendy. Dipper loves Wendy. Dipper will never love you. No one will.”

The fog snaked around their legs. Around everything.

“I can p-_prove_ I’m not a fake! I can _prove_ that I’m a nice guy! If you’ll just give me a ch-chance, you’ll like me! And D-Dipper, he might . . . Please?”

“No. Fake. Freak.” And she turned, climbed off the display pedestal, and lumbered away.

{Women,} Detoby said. {Can’t live with ‘em, but can’t kill ‘em.} Honk. Honk. Honk.

“Maybe she’s right, though . . .” Despairing. Lonely.

The fog took shape around Norman—the shape of hands. Hands that tried to grab at him.

{Call Dipper for help.}

Dodging the hands. “But he’s . . . with Wendy. He won’t want to come.”

{Yes, he will. He’s your friend. Call Dipper.}

“But is he? I don’t . . . have friends. And when I do, th-they get . . . t-taken away from me.”

{He can’t be your friend if you won’t let him. Call Dipper.}

“But the phone . . . No connection.” Barely avoiding them.

{You’re in the Mystery Shack. Call Dipper.}

The hands finally caught him! Held him! Grasped him painfully tight!

{I thought you weren’t going to let fear of your feelings drive you away from him.}

Frightened, he shouted, “D-DIPPER!”

And there Dipper was. “Hey, man.”

“H-help . . .”

“They’re just hands,” Dipper said. “Not even as scary as Gnomes. Give them bloody knuckles.”

Before Norman’s eyes, he made a fist, rapped on the knuckles of every hand that held Norman. They melted away—disappeared the instant he touched them. And then, together, they rapped the knuckles of every hand that took shape in the fog.

They even started laughing together. It was fun!

When the fog had cleared, Dipper lay back on a couch and Norman sat in a stiff-backed chair. Holding a notepad and wearing a suitcoat for some reason.

“I guess it all started when my parents died, doctor.”

“Um . . . go on?” Norman guessed.

“It makes me sad. And my sister hasn’t been the same since.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Sad. Responsible. Sad. I’m glad I have a friend like you who understands.”

“Well . . . Y’know . . . I’m v-very glad I have a . . . a friend l-like y—”

{Excuse me, Doctor Norman. There’s a call for you.}

“Dang it, Detoby, I’m with a patient! Or I guess I’m with a patient, because I’m a . . . doctor now? Can’t you take it?”

{I’m a ghost. How am I supposed to pick up the phone?}

“Well, do something about it!”

Detoby passed back through the office door.

Norman turned, and there was Dipper right in front of him. “W-wha?!”

“No one ever lets you talk. Lets you feel. Do they, Doctor Norman?”

Nervous. Very nervous. Dipper was so close. “N-no, not really . . . But that’s ok—”

“Maybe you should take a turn on the couch.”

“It’s okay, r-really. I’m—”

“Trust me. I’m a doctor.” And Dipper pushed him so that his chair fell back into a couch, sat in the chair that had been a couch a second ago. “So how do you feel?”

“Um . . . Confused. Like, all the time. Like, right now. A lot right now.”

“I see. Go on.”

“And sad. And scared. And lonely. Like no one understands me. Not my Dad, Mom, or anyone. But that sounds like something a stupid, whiny teenager would say.”

Dipper put down the notebook. “I think I have prescription to solve all your problems. And all my problems. We need some luving.”

“W-what?!”

Dipper was standing over him. Sitting down next to him. Leaning close to him.

Norman squirmed away a little. But not too far. He didn’t really want to get away.

“Th-this . . . Um . . . I’m not s-sure this is—”

“Shh.” Dipper laid a finger over Norman’s lips. “Trust me. I’m a doctor.”

“B-but isn’t this a violation of s-some sorta doctor-patient code or something?”

“Well, I’m not actually a doctor. But luving isn’t a controlled substance, so it’s okay.”

“Oh . . . Well, then, I g-guess this is . . . okay with me. Yeah. Very much okay with me. . .”

Dipper leaned closer, his lips parted ever so slightly. He laid a caressing hand on Norman’s face, whispered in his ear, “Rargh . . . Rargh . . . Rargh . . .”

A split second of baffled disappointment later, Norman roared and ripped his alarm clock from the socket. He raised it over his head to hurl it against the far wall. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He let it drop onto the covers with a muttered, “Stupid irreplaceable collector’s item . . .”

“Normy?” his mother called through the door. “Everything alright?”

“F-fine, Mom. Just . . . stubbed my toe,” he lied. “Nothing to w-worry about in here . . .”

“Alright. I’ll go get breakfast ready. Don’t forget you need energy to study hard.”

And, because it made perfect sense in both his contexts, Norman said, “Shan’t . . .”

****

Mabel rolled over and woke up because Waddles was sleep-nuzzling her foot.

And that was all. No weird dreams. No dreams at all.

It had been nighttime when she closed her eyes, and it was morning when she opened them. Gray and hazy—a morning of heavy fog. But morning.

Ant that was all. No weird dreams. No dreams at all. Just sleep.

She didn’t feel too bad, either. Maybe she had a slight, nagging headache, but that was nothing compared to the throbbing in her skull she had suffered over the past couple days.

Climbing out of bed, she prepared for the day—shower, makeup, goth regalia. It felt . . . not bad to be alive in this swirling vortex of pointlessness. Maybe not good, necessarily, but not too bad . . .

Dipper was already at the table with cereal (and paint-stained fingers) when she descended the stairs. “Hey,” he said tentatively.

Mabel looked at her brother coolly. Then, after a moment’s deliberation, she decided she could be civil while still being angry with him. She returned his greeting. “Hey.”

“This mean you’re talking to me again?”

“No. Not even to discuss whether or not this exchange constitutes us talking.”

“Even though we are.”

“No, we are _not_.”

“Pretty sure we are. Why do you say we aren’t?”

“Not falling for that, Dipstick.”

“Even though you are.”

Mabel sighed longsufferingly. “I was trying to be civil, even if I’m still mad at you. I see it was a mistake to believe a poop-head like you could act like a grown-up.”

“Why _are_ you mad at me?” Dipper asked straightly. “Seriously. Why? I don’t get it.”

“Do you still believe what fakey Norman McWhooshhair says about Mom and Dad, even though it’s so _obviously_ a fakey lie?” she demanded.

“Norman’s not a—”

“That would be why, then.”

Now it was Dipper’s turn to sigh longsufferingly. “Mabel—”

“No,” she cut him off stubbornly. “We are not talking about this. You want me to be civil—even to stay in the same room as you? Then we are not talking about this. Suitable conversation material includes the weather, my outfit, school today (insofar as it does not pertain to Norman McWhooshhair), and any subject I do not choose to later veto as my mood dictates.”

“Okay . . . How about food? Is food suitable?”

“I’ll . . . allow it,” she decided judiciously.

“Are you going to eat any?”

“Overruled. Vetoed,” Mabel declared.

“You can’t overrule that. You’re overruling yourself.”

“Objection: badgering the witness.”

“You’re not a witness, so I can’t badger you!” Dipper burst out. “And you’re not a lawyer, either, so you can’t object! And neither am I!”

“Not a good one, at any rate. Not with this blatant contempt of court. Tsk-tsk.”

“Gah . . . Look, you need to eat _something_, Mabel,” Dipper contested reasonably. “I don’t want you to make yourself sick. Please? For me?”

“Oh . . . blarg . . .” Mabel sat and poured a bowl of cereal. She even ate some of it. But she didn’t look happy about it.

“Thanks, Mabel Syrup.”

“Shut up. I’m still not talking to you.”

“But I wasn’t gonna talk about a vetoed subject.”

“Your face is now a vetoed subject.”

“Okay then,” Dipper relented. But he smiled as he did. This was progress.

****

In the hustle and bustle of departing guests, no one noticed two men slip _into_ the Repose Inn. One was tall and bald, with hard, sharp features like a knife; he wore black—a simple, tidy business suit. The other was short; he was a soft, round man and dressed like a stereotypical tourist, in a colorful shirt (though it had long sleeves) and a tie that had puppies on it.

As they moved unobtrusively up the stairs, the man with hard, sharp features would periodically hold the High Priestess tarot card to his forehead. But on every landing, he shook his head and continued to climb. Only once they had reached the seventh and highest floor did he nod. And by this same technique, they came to room #701. The Presidential Suite.

The soft, round man had the door completely unlocked in an instant. Easy as anything.

The two exchanged a glance. The taller one drew his gun and smoothly attached its silencer while the shorter unsheathed both knives from their wrist-sheathes.

Slithering inside—quiet and quick as cobras—they searched the suite, but found it empty.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. Mierda. You were right, mi amigo. We should have come last night, late as the hour was. But I judged it imprudent to risk making a scene so late at night.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. As you say. We must read the cards immediately to find where she has gone.”

The Death Card was removed from the deck, and the deck was shuffled seven times.

The circle was drawn and delineated on the floor of the suite’s luxurious bathroom.

And, standing in its center, the man with hard, sharp features launched the cards into the air—as he had done countless times before. But this time . . .

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si . . . Extraño . . . I have never seen the cards do something like this. Not even when we sought un muerto . . . It is as if she had fallen off the face of the la Tierra . . .”

Not a single card had landed within the circle. Not a single card had landed face-up. A ring of gilded triangles stared back at the man with hard, sharp features.

“Ehehehehehe?”

A shrug. “Si, I suppose; perhaps a strong psychic force protects her? Or perhaps she has stepped into a zone of psychic interference? I cannot say . . . We shall have to try and read again later. For that, we must have this room. Will you wait here, please? I must speak with el conserje.”

At the front desk, the news that he wished to check in to the Presidential Suite immediately was greeted with stone-faced equanimity. “My apologies, sir, but this is hardly the usual check-in time. I also believe that the Presidential Suite is currently occupied.”

A thick stack of American currency thudded onto the front desk. It was a sound that became more beautiful the more one heard it.

All the same, the concierge had an enviable poker face. “If you wish, I will gladly double check.”

“Si. I wish it,” the man with hard, sharp feature replied evenly in near-perfect English.

Several seconds of useless key-typing later, the concierge exclaimed, “Ah! I do so apologize, sir. It seems I was mistaken; room #701 is indeed unoccupied. The previous guest was scheduled to stay until today, but checked out several days early,” the concierge lied.

“Si? Why did she do that?”

“She did not say; I assume the matter was personal,” the concierge answered at once.

The man with hard, sharp features almost smiled. He had his answer; she had indeed been here.

In one fluid motion, the concierge caused the stack of money to vanish and a cardkey to appear in its place. “Room #701, sir.”

****

As they drove (extremely slowly) through town, Mabel watched for the door. And there it was, barely visible in the fog. Nothing weird happened as they drove past. No voices, no slowing of time . . . Nothing at all. Because maybe it was just a door after all . . .

“So why’d I get so obsessed with it? Kinda weird it’s still open . . .”

Getting from the “Student Unloading Zone” (a phrase one might possibly expect to see in a Sci-Fi High School movie) and into the actual school building was like swimming upstream for Dipper and Mabel. They were jostled all around by admirers begging to learn goth wisdom from Her Dark Grace—she who was greater than the Grand Goths of William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School lore, or so the rumors said.

The difficulty of this crossing was only augmented by a brief encounter with Pacifica, who looked strangely agitated and pallid, as if ill; her typically immaculate coif of golden blonde was ruffled, even frazzled, above smeared makeup, and her clothes were flecked with small stains of mud. “Mabel,” she sneered when they bumped into each other. “Just what I need today. Another headache.”

“Pacifica,” Mabel replied coldly, walking past her.

“You think you’re so great, doncha? You think you can just waltz into town and take my friends? Ha! The jokes on you, though!” the blonde shouted at the brunette’s back. “I never had any friends!”

Everyone stopped and stared at Pacifica—Dipper and Mabel, the students thronging Mabel, and especially Pacifica’s minions.

“O . . . kay?” Mabel replied.

“But . . . _we_ are your friends!” Minion #1 insisted.

“You? Ha! You don’t care about me. You only care about the fact that I’m popular and very rich. If it wasn’t for that . . . No, y’know what? Just leave me alone. Popularity parasites. No one even knows what your names are.”

“Yes, they do! My name’s—”

“Nobody cares,” Pacifica cut her off.

Minion #2 reached out to the blonde, saying, “But I thought—”

“NO!” Pacifica slapped the hand away and stormed off into the crowd. Or, more accurately, attempted to storm off into the crowd; she seemed to be unusually unsteady in her heeled boots.

“That was weird,” Dipper said to Mabel.

“Yeah . . .” she agreed contemplatively. “That’s . . . sorta how I’ve been to my BGFFs, huh?”

“Well . . . Maybe a little. To more than just them.”

“Better go find them and apologize.”

“Yeah. And I’m gonna go find Norman. See you later.”

Under her breath, Mabel muttered, “Fakey liar . . .”

Two separate post-awkward-meltdown reunions then happened in different parts of the school; however, they essentially boiled down to the same conversation in front of nigh identical lockers:

“Sorry for the other day. We still cool?” from one of the Pines twins. Mabel added a brief explanation that included the words: “I wasn’t feeling myself at all . . . But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I acted like a shrew-butt to you guys.”

Then an assurance from the friend(s) along the lines of: “Yeah, we’re cool.” It was accompanied by a gesture of forgiveness and reconciliation. Hugs from the girls (girls do a lot of hugging). Fist bumps between the boys (and Jokergeist); a hug would have been weird for them, even if Norman would have accustomed himself to it fairly quickly.

Both scenes were objectively adorable. Had it not been for the seemingly impenetrable fog, rainbows would have spontaneously formed over the school just because of these two scenes. But then they all had to go to their first period classes, because the Department of Education doesn’t care about things like adorability.

****

Tying his cravat, Stan declared to Soos, “I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone for this. Maybe a long while. Shouldn’t matter, what with how crappy business is lately, but . . . Jeez, every time I have to say this, I die a little inside . . .” he muttered disconsolately to himself. “Soos . . . You’re in charge until I get back. The Shack is entirely in your hands.”

An actual salute not even a Drill Sergeant could have faulted. “I won’t disappoint, Mister Pines.”

“How could you? My expectations are so low, they’re under the basement. Basically, I just want the place still standing when I get back. If you and the pig are still breathing, I guess that’ll be a plus.”

“Yessir!”

And, on that cheery note, Stan dove into the fog.

Adjacent to the combination courthouse and town hall of Gravity Falls was a respectable-looking building that was the office of a small law firm: Arnaque and Escroc (“One call, that’s all*.” *In all likelihood, multiple calls will be necessary to complete any given legal action. This slogan should not be considered as a guarantee of success in or out of court.) It was here that Stan reluctantly parked. Upon entering, he was informed by the snippy secretary that Arnold Arnaque (Esq.—and he insisted on the honorific) was expecting him, and he could walk right into the office on the right.

When Stan had first consulted with Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) about the life insurance policies of his deceased nephew and niece-in-law, he had formed the opinion that the lawyer was much like the legal tomes on the bookshelf in this office: painfully boring and unnecessarily gilded. And looking at them made Stan feel like punching something. That opinion was reconfirmed when Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) rose and offered a slow little bow. “How are you, Mister Pines, during this _dreadful_ familial ordeal?”

“Frankly, I’ve been better . . .”

“I can imagine. It must be very difficult for you and the children.”

“You can say that again . . . I’m not even sure what to do about the kids. Poor little gremlins . . .” Stan murmured with more emotion than he usually let show. “Mabel is devastated—just heartbroken, and that breaks _my heart_ every day . . . _and_ her brother’s . . . It worries me, though I’m not exactly sure what I should do. That is the question: What _am_ I supposed to do? What can I do?”

“A difficult—”

“I don’t know _anything_ about raising kids long term. It was just supposed to be a _summer_ thing. Fun. Free labor. Bonding with my only relatives. Giving the parents some time to work out their issues,” Stan added weightily. “But now it’s _full time_.”

“New responsib—”

“I’m not sure I can handle all this full time. School and homework and growing up with all that teenage ‘ankst’ or whatever the kids are calling their issues with friends and fitting in and relationships nowadays . . .” He shuddered. “_Relationships_ . . . Do the gremlins even _understand_ about puberty yet? Am _I _going to have to . . . _explain_ all the . . . _squeamish details_?”

“Indeed, a troubling—”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if they were both boys. That would be easy enough. But with Mabel . . . ‘Uncomfortable’ doesn’t even begin to describe the conversations I’m gonna have to have with her . . . Franklin’s sweat-stained corset and girdle! What on earth am I gonna do when she starts needing _bras_?” Stan asked, obviously terrified. “Or when the hormone cycles _really_ start?”

“A dilemma, to be sure. Now, if I—”

“And then there’s all the expense-stuff in life. Like school supplies—ugh! The bill was horrible!” Stan groused. “Groceries and food, and how we have to get certain kinds that _always_ cost more . . . Dragon shrimp costs a _fortune_. Might as well buy _my own_ shrimping boat . . . Then doctor and dentist visits—so insurance. Mabel’s teeth alone could _bankrupt_ me. Clothes . . . and _college_—”

“Actually, it is about finances that I arranged this meeting,” Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) interjected.

“What? I gotta pay you, too?” Stan demanded pugnaciously.

“Well . . . _yes_. Eventually. That _is_ how it works. But I am not speaking about my emolument.”

Quizzical, Stan repeated, “Embalming mint?”

“My legal fees,” the lawyer explained. “No, I actually wished to inform you that I have been contacted by the insurer. Their investigation is complete, and they have authorized the full amount. Including the value of the totaled vehicle (which I litigated pro bono)—”

Stan repeated suspiciously, “_Pro_ _bono_? That mean you’re . . . _interested_ _in_ _me_ _romantically_? Because, though I am _very_ flattered,” he added quickly, “I just don’t butter my toast on that side.”

With a sigh, Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) rephrased it, “A legal expression which means I did it for free. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Goodness of your _heart_?” Stan repeated, even more suspicious than before.

“Contrary to popular belief, we lawyers do have them. And, in difficult circumstances like yours, we sometimes even work for reduced rates so as not to break them.”

“Well . . . thanks.”

“Besides, no matter what unfeeling tasks I shall undertake in the future, I can now justify myself by saying ‘I have done my good deed for the decade: I helped the Pines orphans’.”

Unsure whether the expressionless lawyer was joking or serious, Stan grunted noncommittally.

“Which is why, as I was saying, I litigated the full price of the vehicle in addition to the policy—and why I will actually only be billing you a total of one hundred dollars instead of my usual rate of one-hundred-fifty dollars an hour.”

“Well . . . thanks,” Stan said again, half expecting the catch to become clear at any moment.

“You are welcome, Mr. Pines. You are also to expect a check from the insurer for a little over two million dollars.”

“I’m getting a check for _t-t-t-t-t-t-two m-m-m-m-m-million dollars_?!”

“That is correct.”

“_TWO_ million dollars?!”

“Indeed.”

“Two _MILLION_ dollars?!”

“As I said, yes.”

“Two million _DOLLARS_?!”

“Why do you keep shouting that?”

“I’ve never been able to say that before! I’ll probably never have the chance to say it again!” Stan practically sang. “I haven’t felt this alive in . . . in over thirty years!”

“Ahem . . .” Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) cleared his throat, his sense of decorum somewhat offended.

“Right. Right. Sorry. It’s just . . . _I’m getting two million dollars_ . . .”

“I might remind you that this money is actually the property of your two young wards. You are the _trustee_, with the duty to protect _their_ inheritance until they are of age,” the lawyer reminded him. “Before this, what was the amount in the trust?”

“Oh . . . about a hundred thousand, I guess . . . From savings they had—my nephew and his wife, I mean—and their property . . .” The exhilaration faded as swiftly as it had erupted; Stan looked grave once again. “The realtor thinks the house will bring about another seven hundred thousand . . .”

“Leaving the children about three million in trust,” Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) surmised approvingly. “Your nephew was a very thorough man—very careful; he prepared for these . . . eventualities with admirable practicality.”

“Yeah . . . He always planned very carefully . . . Very _thorough_ . . .” Stan reminisced regretfully. “The boy, Dipper, is too; he got that from him . . . We used to make fun of him for it, but . . . Well . . .”

The lawyer nodded understandingly. He then declared, “That thoroughness should help alleviate your pecuniary situation, Mr. Pines. A provision of the will entitles you to half the annual interest for all the necessary expenses of raising the children—food, clothing, schooling, etc.”

Stan’s eyes glazed over momentarily as he calculated aloud. “1.5% of $3,000,000 is . . . $45,000. Divided by 2 equals . . . $22,_500_!”

“Why, yes. That is roughly the amount per year,” the lawyer confirmed, clearly impressed.

“I get $22,_500 _a year to look after the little gremlins?”

“That is correct.”

“$22,_500_?”

“Let’s not do this again, please.”

“Right. Right. Sorry . . .” Stan apologized. It all made him feel slightly breathless. Even giddy. Depressed one moment, then euphoric the next. Up then down.

“That sum can buy a lot of school supplies and dragon shrimp.”

“Yes . . . But . . .” Stan put a hand to his eyes, trying to stem the giddiness. “But it’s _their_ money. It wouldn’t . . . It wouldn’t be . . . GRARright to take it . . .” he said, as though it had cost him a kidney.

“On the contrary,” Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) contradicted him reassuringly. “The will bequeaths it to you to aid in their upbringing. So long as you remain a fit guardian, it is legally _your_ money.”

“Legally . . . _my_ money . . .” Stan repeated. The notion seemed to daze—or maybe dazzle—him. After a moment of stunned silence, he rose abruptly.

“Mister Pines?”

“Thank you for telling me,” Stan mumbled. “But it’s all just so much to take in right now, and . . . I need a blintz,” he asserted suddenly. “Maybe twelve.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Turning his eyes to the lawyer, Stan said, “Thanks for telling me. If there’s nothing else . . .”

Somewhat bemused, the lawyer stated, “That should be everything pursuant to the case.”

“Then I . . . I will see you later, maybe . . .” And Stan stumbled out the door.

****

Some might find it odd that the Keeper of the Precepts was worried by the unexplained absence of the Imposter—that, all throughout his first and second period classes, he surreptitiously monitored every text message that streamed in from the various members of the Consortium.

His inquiry had been: <any1 seen Imposter 2day? >

The replies were either: <no : p > or <who cares>

This saddened him, which, again, some might find odd. For had he not deposed the Imposter? And had he not consolidated the support of all remaining goths in the Gravity Falls Consortium behind Lady Mabelladonna? Was he not at the fore of a gothic revolution, and challenging everything for which the Imposter stood? Did he not have every reason to hate the Imposter? To rejoice in this absence?

Yet it is important to understand that the Keeper of the Precepts did not hate the Imposter. Even now, it was still the platonic love which is friendship that he mostly felt. Yes, there was betrayal, wrath, and no small portion of sorrow, but friends sometimes fight; he understood this. He also understood that the Imposter had done much good for the Dark Order (or what they had all believed was good at the time, and for which any blame now would be unjust), and could still do it much good. The devoted love which is service that he felt for the Dark Order (as countless others have felt and feel for their cause or their ideal—a party, a people, a nation, a government, a religion) would not let him abandon a fellow goth. A brother/sister. Especially not one who could still do so much good.

Regarding the final form of love (the erotic love which is romance) the Keeper of the Precepts reserved all that for the character Abby Sciuto of NCIS. But that is another matter altogether.

Half-way through his second period, he begged a bathroom break and swept into the corridor. There, he scrolled through his list of contacts until he found “Grand Goth”—something he hadn’t yet had the heart to change—and pressed the call button.

Three shrill tones. One shrill pseudo-feminine voice. “We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again. Thank you.”

The Keeper of the Precepts stared at his phone. “Disconnected?” he repeated, utterly baffled. Trying to call a second time only led to the same message, even though the number was still correct. “Bizarre . . . Maybe the home phone number?”

A woman’s voice answered the phone in a panic. A mother’s voice. “Kennedy?! Is that you?!”

“Um . . . G-greetings, Missus Jenkins. It’s Samuel Turley, actually—”

“Sam? Do you . . . do you know where Kennedy is?” Missus Jenkins asked in a rush. “She/He never came home last night, and won’t answer the phone, and . . . and I don’t know where my baby is!”

The Keeper of the Precepts licked his lips nervously. “Did, er . . . Was his/her number changed recently, maybe?”

“No, but every time I call, it tells me it’s been disconnected! W-why would that happen?! Wouldn’t it just go to voicemail if it was turned off?”

“I believe so. Missus Jenkins, when was the last time you saw her/him?”

“About . . . five last night, maybe? Kennedy went to go buy some beets, but never came back!” she sobbed. “You d-don’t think—”

“No plans for the evening?”

“N-no, I don’t think so . . . Kennedy’s been kinda depressed lately—didn’t seem to wanna go out or do much of anything lately . . . Was there some kinda tiff in your goth club?”

Like a blow, the Keeper of the Precepts felt that one deep inside. One could think many things about him based upon his life choices; one could find them (and thus find him) to be silly or even stupid, naïf, misguided, illogical, superstitious, etcetera and etcetera. But, in truth, he possessed a noble soul. Like nearly all true believers in a subculture, religion, or political party (the three of which are essentially the same thing), he was good at heart.

And now his heart was telling him that his actions had not been as good as his intentions.

Missus Jenkins continued, “He/She was supposed to come straight back, but—”

“Have you called the police?”

“Y-yes, but . . . I don’t know how much they can do; there’s so few of them!”

“True. A search needs more than—what?—half-a-dozen? Look . . . I called because he/she is not in class. I was worried—”

“You always have been such a good friend to Kennedy, Sam.”

“R-right . . .” Another blow. A deeper one. The Keeper of the Precepts closed his eyes, sealed out the world of light to commune with his inner darkness. It whispered immediately that he should do whatever he liked, so long as it didn’t hurt anyone. And that doing nothing would hurt many people. Therefore, only one course of action was acceptable for him as a follower of the Dark Order. He declared it to Missus Jenkins. “I’m going to assemble as much of the Consortium as I can, and then we will search everywhere she/he is likely to have visited. The Principal will either consent or watch us walk out, though I believe the former is more likely.”

“Y-you will?” she asked, daring to hope.

“I am the Keeper of the Precepts,” he stated. “Nothing stops me doing what I believe is right. We’ll find him/her, I promise. I have to go now, but please keep me up-to-date on everything you learn. I’ll do the same for you.”

Missus Jenkins was practically in tears of gratitude as she said, “Thank you, Sam!”

He ended the call, and then he sent a text to all the Consortium. <cant ,and u but please meet 4 important reason during lunch. very important. please. begging u on knees. KotP>

****

Under an inflated balloon of an invitingly beaming pastry sat a bakery called Go Nuts Donuts! This was where Stan drove after his meeting with the lawyer, and where he often drove when upset. Where else could he go for the edible happiness that is a blintz? It was the only blintz game in town.

And was he ever upset now . . .

Part of him felt like stopping in the middle of an intersection (where everyone could see him), climbing onto the roof of his car, and tap-dancing while belting out the tune of “I’m in the money!” Another part of him, however, felt overcome by an entirely alien emotion: guilt. His nephew was dead, but he was alive and cashing in because of it; and yet that cash was really meant for Dipper and Mabel.

The first part of him was protesting that everything was legal, so he had no reason to feel guilty. In fact, it even amended the lyrics of the song to say, “It’s _legal_ money!”

But the second part of him answered back, “It’s _the_ _kids’_ money! You’d steal _their_ money?”

There was no way the first part could counter that. But there was also no way it wouldn’t try. While Stan parked, it hummed through him, “It’s there to feed them . . . It’s there to clothe them . . . And if there’s some left for me, who is gonna care?”

The second part stopped singing. It didn’t have to sing. It just said, “I will.”

“Shut up!” the first part of him retorted. “No, I won’t! There’s no good reason why I should!”

“There are at least two good reasons, and their names are—”

“LALALALALALA! I can’t hear you! LALALALALA!”

“Sir?” the cashier asked. “Sir?”

Both parts of Stan united long enough to order. “One blintz del diablo. And make it snappy!” They practically shouted it, they were so upset.

Which is why a woman who was no longer middle-aged, even though she was seated at a table in the far corner and sleep-deprived from driving most of the night (and scrubbing her cheap hotel room until it sparkled with the rest of it), heard his voice. She went rigid as it echoed through her memories. “Esa voz . . . Can it really be?”

Receiving his blintz, Stan offered a perfunctory and ungracious, “Thank you.”

“It is! _Mi_ _eStanford_!”

Now Stan froze where he stood. “I know that voice . . .” he said aloud. Pivoting around slowly, he looked at the woman who was no longer middle-aged. She had risen upon recognizing him, but then had not dared to approach him. She simply stood there while he looked at her from across the room and from across three decades.

But it was her. It could only ever have been her. That voice, still rich and smooth like alto honey. Those eyes, still dark and warm as the finest of coffees. Perhaps her appearance had changed—gray in her curly hair, wrinkles on her shapely face, drab clothing over her yet curvaceous form—but her aspect still shone through. Thirty years made no difference. It could have been a million years or three; he still would have known her in an instant. She still looked like the sound of guitars and accordions . . .

Timidly, she asked in accented English, “Do you . . . _Can_ you estill reconize me, mi eStanford?”

“Esmerelsa,” Stan said. It was not a question, nor a greeting; it was merely a statement of fact. “Of all the blintz joints in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk into mine . . .”

“It has been esuch a long time. Not esince Colombia—”

Stan interjected fiercely, “Not since _Panama_.”

“You are . . . not happy to esee me . . .” Her eyes grew misty. “I cannot blame you, eStanford.”

“I should hope not. _You_ are the one who broke _my_ heart into thirty-seven pieces.”

“I’m esorry . . . I had no choice,” she offered contritely.

“You had no choice? So you _had_ to leave me standing on a dock in Panama, watching you jetski away in the arms of another man?” he demanded sarcastically. “You _had_ to steal the seaplane we had, er, _bought_ together—filled with the authentic Colombian goods we were going to sell to start our new life together—while I _watched_?”

“They were never authentic. They were all—how do you esay ‘falsos’?”

“_Of course_ they weren’t! But the rubes wouldn’t have known that! They’d have paid _top dollar_! Anyway, that’s _not_ the _point_!” Stan asserted angrily.

Behind him, a customer interjected, “Could we move this along? You’re blocking the counter, and I’d like to get my coffee at _some_ point today.”

In one smooth motion, Stan took the coffee meant for this customer and upended all of it onto this customer’s crotch. The customer screamed, curled into a fetal position, and rolled onto the floor. “My _groin_! It’s scalded _again_! _Whyyyyyyy_?!”

Heedless of this, Stan bore down on Esmerelsa. “The point is that you broke my heart—broke it into _thirty-seven_ pieces! And yes, it was _exactly_ thirty-seven! I counted _every_ piece! So no, I’m _not_ happy to see you. I lost the ability to be happy the day when apparently you had no choice but to abandon me in that quaint village that specializes in the making of Panama hats, and where _no_ _one_ speaks English!”

She remained firm before his accusations, though a tear did fall onto her cheek. “Do you . . . think I _wanted_ to leave you? I _loved_ you, eStanford! But I had _no_ choice that day.”

“That’s a lie. You left me and you forgot about me.”

“No. Never. And here’s the proof.” She held up a half-eaten pastry.

He glanced at it for a moment, and then asked quietly, “That’s a . . . Is that a blintz?”

Esmerelsa nodded. “Every day, I go to . . . una pasteleria—how do you esay? Like this eshop. And I buy a blintz, the one that looks most like those we were esharing in Bogota. And I think of you, eStanford . . . and what might have been . . . Every day—_todos los dias—_I do this. It is like you were always esaying . . . You remember?”

Recalling bygone days, Stan intoned, “We’ll always have blintzes.”

Nodding, Esmerelsa replied, “We’ll always have blintzes. We’ve always _had_ blintzes.”

“Yeah . . . I guess we always have had blintzes . . .”

For a moment, they both just stood there silently. Looking at their pastries—at the remnant of whatever bond they still shared after more than thirty years.

Clearing his throat, Stan asked, “May I . . . sit down for a minute?”

“I would like that, mi eStanford.”

****

Under the bleachers, Dipper poked at his lunch distastefully. Whatever it was, it had to be food of some kind. Chicken teriyaki, maybe? Hadn’t that been what was advertised? He sighed. “Y’know what would be great? Tacos.”

{Talkos?} Detoby repeated. {Is that like a talkie?}

“They’re Mexican,” Norman explained. “Crunchy tortilla, ‘meat’, cheese. Maybe a nominal show of vegetables somewhere in there to trick people into thinking they might be healthy.”

“A taco is like a burger,” Dipper continued. “It’s virtually impossible to ruin. That’s the beauty of my proposal; not even the maniacs in the kitchen could ruin a taco.”

“Well . . . Maybe you should like . . . start a petition for, um, Taco Tuesdays,” Norman suggested.

Dipper’s fork clattered to the ground. He looked as his friend as if he could not believe such a beautiful mind really existed in such a sad, ugly world. “_Brilliant_ . . .” he breathed. “I could _kiss_ you!”

With a nervous little blush, Norman laughed, “C-c’mon, man. Don’t be gay!”

{Gay . . .} Detoby sighed. {Can’t believe they ruined that word, too . . .}

“We could draft one today!” Dipper exclaimed. “Maybe spend the afternoon circulating it . . .”

“In this f-fog?”

{Oh! You still need to make a _compt_-_ron_-_doo_ about that one, Bugaboo. Send it up the channels. Maybe he’s got some intel in the _journ_-_el_ concerning your vision,} the Jokergeist advised.

The Medium balked at the idea, however. Instead, he suggested, “W-we should, um, maybe wait until it c-clears up, don’t you think?”

Deflating visibly, the behatted boy agreed, “Yeah, I guess that’s sensible . . .”

{Bugaboo?}

And then Dipper added, “Sorry about the way my sister’s treating you, by the way.”

“It’s okay,” Norman assured him. “Really. It’s fine.”

{But it was funny how she wound up . . . well, winding up all the way around,} Detoby chuckled.

At the start of Miz Attical’s class, upon seeing Norman shyly wave to her, Mabel had given him a classic cold shoulder—literally turned away (exactly 90 degrees) with her nose in the air and a “Hmph!” When Dipper had tried to interpose in favor of his friend, he earned the same treatment (180 degrees). Insisting that she listen to him made her double it (270 degrees), and insisting that she was being silly made her triple it (360 degrees). This, of course, had brought her back to facing Norman, so she had to give him a second cold shoulder (450 degrees). After that, Dipper had just given up and accepted that Mabel wasn’t going to speak to him while Norman was present. If that was how she wanted to be, then he couldn’t think of a reason why he would want to deal with her anyway.

The cold shoulder treatment had then continued through class and proceeded up the lunch line. Needless to say, Grenda and Candy had been rather puzzled by this display, but both were smart enough to not kick an obvious hornet’s nest. Mabel was almost acting normal again (for Mabel, at least); they didn’t want to send her spiraling back down into another bout of depression.

“She’s not like this, really . . .” Dipper averred (though somewhat sadly) in his sister’s defense. “Heck, if it weren’t for . . . all this, she’d probably be trying to make friends with ghosts through you . . . Or something. Maybe even trying to make you her boyfriend. Bows in your hair, flower crowns. Heh . . .”

Though absolutely horrified, Norman forced himself to laugh, too. “Hahaha . . . Y-yeah . . .”

{Hmm . . . Flower crowns and bows, he says. Yes, I can see them now . . . See them _everywhere_!}

“No, Detoby,” the Medium said flatly. “Not happening.”

{It still could. You’re no Airedale. With blue eyes like that—why, change that pullover for a vest with an adorable little boutonniere, and you could be eating more cake than a baker’s sweetheart. Then it would be flower crowns and pretty pink bows _everywhere_!} Detoby said with a flourish and a honk. {_Everywhere_, I say!}

“Stop! I don’t even know what you’re saying, but stop!”

“What is he saying?” Dipper asked.

“Nothing! He’s saying nothing now, and he’s gonna keep saying nothing forever!”

With a grin, Dipper asked, “He’s making fun of you, isn’t he?”

“Maybe . . . So what _are_ w-we gonna do today?” Norman asked.

“Dunno. Haven’t been many mysteries to solve lately, and this fog is like . . . It makes me sorta wanna stay inside, y’know?”

Detoby nodded, {Amen to that! You should tell him about your vision now, Mister NorMedium.}

Dipper continued to ramble on, meanwhile. “We could still draft a petition, though. Or maybe a resolution for the city cou—”

“Um . . . M-maybe that’s what we should investigate?”

“What? The city council?”

Norman sighed, then responded with peerless sarcasm, “Yes, the city council. I’m sure they’re the ones responsible for this fog. They have thousands upon thousands of fog machines—”

{Purchased with misappropriated tax dollars, no less, the dastardly bastards!} Detoby added.

“You wanna investigate _fog_?” the behatted boy asked confusedly. “Why? I mean, it’s just _fog_. Kinda creepy with it being all hard to see and hear, but . . . Basically, it’s just a low cloud.”

“W-well, actually . . .”

In an instant, Dipper’s interest was piqued. He scooted closer to ask excitedly, “Is it not? Is there something paranormal about this fog?”

Hand in hair, Norman faltered, “W-well . . . Yesterday I sorta s-saw . . .”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Um . . .”

Seeing ghosts was one thing. That was run-of-the-mill paranormal; if ghosts existed, then someone had to see them. But admitting to seeing visions? That was weird and ridiculous-sounding. Might as well start dressing like a gypsy and wear a sandwich board that said “CONSULT A FREAK”.

Such a sentiment might seem utterly illogical (and it is), but that was just how Norman felt. Experience had taught him not to be forthcoming with details to people, and especially when he cared what those people thought about him. So he abridged the truth a little.

“It f-formed hands, and they t-tried . . . To grab me.”

“Whoa. Really?” Dipper turned and glared beyond the bleachers—glared out into the fog. “Then what happened?”

“They sorta just . . . faded away,” the Medium answered evasively.

{_Because it was a vision_. Don’t you think that’s important to include?} Detoby pressed him.

“Hmm . . . Was it ghosts, do you think?”

“No. Definitely not. At least . . .” With an irritated sigh, Norman admitted, “I don’t know. Something like this happened with Aggie—that poltergeist I told you about; nature kinda went haywire So maybe? But there were no ghosts there that I could see.”

{Ahem.}

“Except Detoby, of course.”

{Thank you, Bugaboo. Now, while you’re listening to me, maybe you should tell him about the rest of _your vision_! Because it’s probably important!}

From his vest, Dipper drew 3 and set about paging through it. “I don’t remember anything about items or creatures that could change the weather . . . No mystical amulets or anything . . .” he mused. “But maybe I missed something?”

Looking away, Norman murmured, “Th-thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“B-believing me. Not thinking I made it up or was seeing things.”

“Well, duh, of course you’re not making it up,” Dipper said offhandedly.

“Y-yeah, but . . . Thanks . . .”

“So you think we’re dealing with a poltergeist?”

Norman shrugged. “Maybe? I have no idea. We’re in Gravity Freaking Falls, with Merpeople and Manotaurs and the Multibear. It could be a demon fog, for all I know.”

Dipper closed the journal and looked up at his friend with a glint in his eye. “Sounds like we got us something to investigate after school.” Holding out his fist, he said, “Mystery Kids?”

Norman rolled his eyes, but he still bumped it with his own fist. “Mystery Kids . . . I guess . . . Stupid name . . .”

****

“Heeeeeey, Joseph, Josephine. About time you two showed up. You been off smooching?”

“For your information,” Joseph returned indignantly, “kissing isn’t the only part of romance . . . Just one of the better part.”

A lot of hooting and hollering might have ensued, but the Keeper of the Precepts swept hastily into the auditorium at that point. “Is everyone here?” he asked breathlessly.

“Now that the Tumblr-fodder Two is here, yep. Everyone that didn’t leave the Consortium.”

“What’s up?” someone asked.

Taking a deep breath, the Keeper of the Precepts replied, “I’ve called you all here because . . . because I need your help. The Impos—no,” he stopped himself reproachfully. “_Ebony Ravenspath_ disappeared last night.”

Silence greeted this announcement. And then someone asked, “So?”

“So?!” the Keeper of the Precepts repeated incredulously. “Is that _all_ you have to say?”

“She/He is the enemy now. Isn’t this good news?”

“Yeah! No more trouble from the Imposter anymore!”

“A good day for the true Dark Order.”

The Keeper of the Precepts burst out, “No, it is _not_! One of our own might be lost and hurt!”

“Heh! Yeah, probably can’t get across the front yard without a palanquin.”

“Lying in the gutter right now, too weak from sunlight to call for help!”

“Haha! Or maybe—”

“DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M SAYING?!” the Keeper of the Precepts shouted at them. “Another goth disappeared last night! Maybe lost, maybe _abducted_!”

Silence also greeted this pronouncement. A much more sober one.

Somebody muttered, “Not really a goth anymore, though . . .”

Rounding on the speaker, the Keeper of the Precepts demanded, “What was that?”

“Well . . . The Imposter left the Consortium. Means he/she isn’t really a goth anymore. At least, not one of _our_ kind of goth . . .”

There was a collective intake of breath and many feared the Keeper of the Precepts might punch the speaker for this. The speaker was one of them; the Keeper of the Precepts was even one of them. But in the end, he restrained himself. “You are not wrong. But Ebony was once our kind of goth—even our Grand Goth. An imperfect one, yes, but not a bad one. A good one, even, according to what we once understood as good. Ebony was also our friend.”

Someone scoffed.

“Have you forgotten last year? When the Glee Club seized power and was preparing a resolution that would force all us goths to sing like Oompaloompas? Who marched into their council—alone—and prevented such discrimination? It was Ebony. Our dignity was maintained, and our wardrobe rights were even expanded. Such was the fear and the respect inspired.” Singling out a goth from the Consortium, he asked, “When those jocks threw you out of the locker room in nothing but your underwear, someone covered you with their coat until the coach was summoned to punish them. Who was it?”

“The . . . It was the Imposter. Ebony.”

“And you,” said to another goth. “Who argued for hours with Miz Atticals until she accepted that your dark poetry (even if she didn’t like it) deserved a B+ on that sonnet assignment?”

“Ebony.”

Another one was signaled. “Who taught you how to apply guyliner?”

“Ebony.”

“When you sprained your ankle, who sent the palanquin to carry you from class to class so that you wouldn’t have to walk?”

“Ebony.”

“When you said you needed to build some muscle, who made you a palanquin porter?”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly altruist—”

“Are you stronger now?”

“I’m like a goth ox—a goxth! That . . . sounded better in my head.”

“Thanks to whom?”

“Thanks to Ebony, I guess.”

Looking about the Consortium, the Keeper of the Precepts rhetoricized, “Do those strike you as the actions of one who is ‘not our kind of goth’? Or do they rather strike you as the actions of one who _was_ and _still_ _can_ _be_ our friend? Even if we never reconcile our perspectives of the true Dark Order . . . You must decide that one. What I can tell you for certain is this: another _human_ _being_ needs our help. We should want to give that help. I would even say we have a duty to give that help.”

“How do you figure? The Promised One said we should do whatever we like. That means there are no more duties,” someone contended.

“As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone,” the Keeper of the Precepts finished their gothic injunction. “But doing nothing will hurt someone. However, let’s assume my argument is flawed,” he continued. “Let’s assume it will actually hurt no one if we do nothing. We should still do it _because we are goths_ and we are better than everyone. Do you not agree? Are we not better than everyone else?”

A chorus of “Yes!” and “Hell yeah!” greeted this question.

“I certainly agree; I think goths are the coolest clique in the school. We’re the best people here. So do we not have a responsibility to act like it? Ought we not to _be_ the best people in every way? Otherwise, we would be the rankest of poseurs. I do not want to be a poseur. Do you?”

The chorus fell silent. That final question hung in the air, like the accusation of one’s conscience.

“I will now go to the Principal’s office, explain the situation, and leave to search for Ebony. Such is what I feel to be right. I cannot compel you to join me, but I hope you will . . . I would not like to think that any of you are less noble than I believe you to be. You are my friends, after all.”

With that, the Keeper of the Precepts left the darkened auditorium and did not look back.

There was some muttering. There was some groaning.

But, in the end, there was an empty auditorium and a full Principal’s office.

****

Alone in a bathroom. Cold water running from the tap. Splashed against her face—not caring any longer about her already ruined makeup. A second splash of cold water.

For a moment, Pacifica just stood there, stooped and dripping over one of the sinks. She felt many things in that moment: nauseous, furious, friendless, queasy, depressed, dejected, and nauseated. Her headache had intensified from throbbing to pounding, which did nothing to improve her mood. Neither had being given detention from two separate teachers.

“Stupid gutter trash!” she hissed down at the sink. “Think they can . . . tell me what to do. As if my family didn’t own this town! If I don’t feel like doing stupid algebra or singing, I shouldn’t have to! Stupid songs about friendship . . . as if that wasn’t all garbage . . . No one’s ever cared about me . . . Liked me for me . . .”

An indistinct noise, like a whisper. But not a whisper.

Pacifica looked around the bathroom. No one was there.

“Good . . .” she turned back around, bent over to splash her face a third time. “I don’t wanna see anyone . . . Just wanna be alone, like, forever . . .”

That whisper again—somehow, inside her ear. Louder this time.

She whirled around. “Hello?”

No answer. The bathroom was still empty.

Pacifica turned around again, bent over the sink, and let the sensation of cold water relieve some of the tension she felt. “Should maybe . . . fix my makeup . . . A Northwest must look their best,” she quoted her father bitterly. Another splash of water, and she straightened up to examine her—

No face behind her! A man bent over behind her, looking into the mirror over her shoulder, but with no face! Pale and blank and thin and no face!

She shrieked—she spun—but there was nothing behind her. “W-wha?”

The whisper. Louder still. Almost distinct.

She lurched from the empty bathroom, out into a semi-filled hallway. People stared at her. Everyone stared at her. Like she was crazy. Like they were better than she was. She glared at them all. “Didn’t see anything!” she snapped. “No tall man without a face, so screw you all! I’m not crazy!”

If there was anything that could be said to this pronouncement, no one could think of it before she stormed unsteadily away.

****

At first, their conversation had been uncomfortable—both Stan and Esmerelsa were too jaded not to recognize the distance between them, even if both wanted (in their unspoken heart of hearts) nothing more than to leap across it. Vague questions with guarded answers and the ever lingering fear of disclosing too much; of making vulnerable too much.

“So . . . how have you been?”

“Buena, you could esay. You?”

“The same, I guess . . . Maybe things didn’t turn out the way I planned, but they’re not bad . . .”

“I am happy to hear that they are not bad.”

“And you? Did things work out alright for you?”

“I . . . They could have been worse. I wanted better, but . . .”

“I can understand that.”

“Si. I imagine we both can . . . How did they ‘turn out’ esactly, eStanford?”

“I wound up in this town eventually. Now I own a . . . kinda museum about paranormal things. Usually brings in a lot of rubes, and I bleed ‘em as dry as I can. It’s fun, I guess. I like the challenge. You?”

“I was una contable—how do you esay? I ran the numbers for a . . . a business.”

“An accountant, maybe?”

“Si. Accountant. I made esure everything added up the right way. To keep it all _looking_ legal.”

“Heh. Sounds like we both wound up fleecing rubes after all . . . Like we planned . . .”

“Not esactly like we planned . . .”

“No, not exactly . . . You said you _were_ an accountant? You’re not still an accountant?”

“You might esay I am on permanent vacation. eSightseeing this country until . . . until maybe . . . I find a place to call home. eSomeplace where I can estart again . . . maybe have a esecond chance?” Reaching across the table, she tremblingly touched his hand. One gesture that said more than hours of words ever could.

He did not withdraw his. But he did say, “Aren’t we a little old for second chances?”

“Only if you esay we are . . . mi eStanford.”

Swallowing thickly, he said, “We’re not the same people anymore.”

“Then maybe now is a first chance for us?”

“Heh. You always could talk your way round anything,” Stan chuckled heavily. “But you can’t . . . you can’t talk your way round the last thirty years. You . . . hurt me, Esmerelsa.”

“I hurt me just as much. Maybe more.”

“Why, then? Why did you leave me?”

She hesitated. “It is a long estory. Long and painful.”

“That’s a dodge.”

“It is not. It is a warning. You will not like the answer.”

“It can’t be worse than living with no answer at all. Besides, you owe me that much,” he argued with uncompromising finality.

“Si. You are right, mi eStanford . . .” She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily, as though preparing to endure great suffering. “What do you remember about my past?”

“Everything.”

“Eveything? Really?”

To prove it, Stan recounted, “Your brother Lazlorenzo was killed by one of those political-paramilitary groups running rampant in Colombia during the late 60s and into the early 70s, so you joined its rival to get revenge. You used to carry his photo with you everywhere, to remind yourself why you were fighting. They had you plant bombs at first, because you were young and beautiful and could talk your way around any man. Then they realized that’d make you a better spy.”

“You remember this? After all this time?”

“I also remember that you were eventually apprehended by government officials, but convinced them you were just some ditzy prostitute, so they only sentenced you to a few months in La Modelo. You were always real proud for being able to make them believe that one. And then we met.”

“Si.” Esmerelsa smiled reminiscently to herself. “I remember how terrified you looked.”

Defensively, he said, “There was a riot going on, and I had no idea why. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“Pobre chico americano . . .”

“As I recall, you were looking pretty scared, too.”

“It was a prison riot—”

Stan interrupted emphatically. “Exactly!”

“And I was a young, beautiful girl.”

“Pobre chica colombiana.”

“It was not a good place for either of us . . . Why were you there, mi eStanford? Ah! I remember! Because you were a esmuggler!”

“I prefer to think that I was more of a young and enterprising merchant dealing in ‘authentic’ South American ‘antiquities’ who was so busy thinking of all the orphanages I would be able to save from bankruptcy that Customs just slipped my mind,” Stan countered wryly. “Might not have been a problem if some of those antiquities hadn’t . . . actually been authentic after all. That was news to me.”

“And if you hadn’t accidentally dropped them and broken them when the Customs—is that the word?—Agents eseized you.”

“Heh. I still remember the embassy lawyer’s face when I admitted that to him. Turns out that ‘honesty is the best policy’ er policy is not such a good thing when you may have committed an international incident. I still think he could’ve gotten me off,” Stan maintained. “That month in jail was his way of letting me know he thought I was an idiot. Still, I did make some good friends . . .”

Esmerelsa laughed. “And, when the riot happened, we both hid in la lavanderiá!”

“Crawled out of the prison through the lint filtration system—that huge lint filtration system! What was even the deal with that?”

“Hid in the poorest barrios of Bogotá. Pretending to be a pair of nuns!”

“Had to work in a bakery to survive, and so discovered blintzes.”

“Escaped los tombos—la policiá—by estarting a dance fiesta!”

Stan snorted. “You crazy South Americans and your obsessive need to shake it.”

“We just have eso much passion,” she laughed. “What happened next?”

“We . . . fell in love,” Stan concluded, no longer laughing. “Decided to flee Colombia together.”

“eStart a life together, full of hope and promise . . .” Esmerelsa sighed, now full of regret.

“Then Panama and baldy and jetskis. And now, you tell me why Panama and baldy and jetskis.”

“What I told you was true, mi eStanford. But what I did not esay to you was that the rival faction I joined was actually . . . _El Cartel_,” she whispered.

“A cartel? Well, big deal . . . I mean, there were tons of those. Everything was a cartel.”

“No, not a cartel. _El Cartel_. The first and most powerful,” she asserted in a hushed voice.

Not getting it, Stan asked, “What’s so special about them?”

“Lesser cartels esquabble like children for control of drugs. They fight for the pocket money of people who beggar themselves for a hit of different poisons. But El Cartel can control them with a word. El Cartel controls a esubstance which is eso potent that the leaders of nations will beggar their entire people for a cup. Los Granos Dorados.”

“The . . . gold grains?” Stan tried to translate.

“Grains of coffee.”

“Coffee beans? You’re kidding me, Esmerelsa.”

“No. Never. Not you, mi eStanford.”

“They control nations with cups of coffee?”

“You do not understand how potent it is. A esingle cup will give you energy for a week—but not just energy. It opens the mind. It makes one a genius. You esee everything, and you know how to make everything dance around you. To make everything obey you. Imagine what a politician would do for that kind of power.”

“They really that good?”

“Better. I have had a cup of this coffee.”

“Okay, so . . . You joined El Cartel. Which tries to control the world with golden coffee. I’m . . . following so far, I guess,” Stan tried to say levelly.

“They esoon discovered my gift for numbers. My perfect memory. And my genius with a ledger. They did not want to lose that to a rival.”

“But you were in prison. They let you go to prison.”

“For a few months. Where they could watch me and convince their rivals that I was worthless.”

“Ah . . .”

“Si. And then, you happened . . .” Smiling at him—the smile of one who regrets nothing, though there is much that has been suffered—she said, “We ran, they could not find me. Not at first. I hoped maybe we could disappear and they would forget about me. But . . . I was estupidia. Used my real name. Went out with you all the time—eso estupidia! Because I was eso in love . . . Took us to tango together. You remember when we tangoed together as if our lives depended upon it?”

“In that slum-wide competition,” Stan finished nostalgically. “It was how we won enough money to make it out of the country. Buy our seaplane and all that stuff we were going to sell here . . .”

“eSomeone recognized me. And El Cartel . . . they esent the best to bring me back. El Condor and Señor Lococo.”

“The Condor and . . . what would we even say for that in English? Senor Cray-Cray?”

“El Condor, he is ruthless. A man who is hard and esharp. They call him this because he has a nose for finding people. Never has anyone escaped him. Not even in death—he finds even the bodies of his targets.” With a shiver, she added, “They even esay that he leaves nothing behind of the people he is espposed to kill.”

“That was baldy?”

“On the—how do you esay?—jetski? That was El Condor. And the other was in the eseaplane. He appears esoft and round, but he is . . . He likes to kill his targets eslowly, and he laughs when he does. He likes to think of himself as an artist, they esay . . .” Sniffing, she stated, “Two options—they gave me two options. Go with them voluntarily or go against my will . . . after they killed you. El Condor, he esaid he would make me w-watch, and . . .” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I w-went with them. I had to go . . . Doing this thing, it killed me. But at least it did not kill you, mi eStanford.”

“Except it did,” he said quietly. “Watching you leave without any explanation . . . It killed me.”

She looked at him. Looked into his eyes though tears flowed from hers. “I am esorry . . . I did not know what else to do . . .”

Holding her hand, Stan said nothing. There was nothing he could say that was more eloquent than his touch.

“eSo now . . . here we are,” she eventually managed to say. “In una pasteleria, eating blintzes. Again . . . Maybe this is el Destino, or maybe it is la Suerte—esorry, luck—but . . .” She swallowed thickly. “Is it possible that . . . that, even now, it is not too late for us?”

“Esmerelsa . . .” Stan sighed. He had fantasized about this for years, but now he had no idea what to do or to say. Even what to feel. “We’re not the same people we were back then.”

“Is that . . . a ‘no’?”

“It’s not a ‘no’. It’s a . . . ‘I’m not even sure how to respond to all this because . . . because it’s all just so much at once’. That’s what it is . . .”

“I feel the esame. But I have already lost you once already . . . I could not estand to lose you a esecond time—not without fighting to hold onto you,” Esmerelsa said with determination. “But, if you need time to think . . .”

“I think I do need time to think and . . . to think. There’s just been a lot today . . . to think about. Least, that’s what I think . . . I think . . .” Stan blushed. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”

Soulfully, she held his hand in both of hers and looked into his eyes once again—the same eyes into which she had looked so often and so lovingly . . . so long ago. “I did not plan to estay in this town for very long, but I will estay at least until nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you . . . If you decide that you want to give us a esecond chance . . . Well, I will be waiting for you, mi eStanford. The Hotel Lodge, room #2. And if not . . . I hope you will be happy. Whatever you choose, I want you to be happy.”

“Okay . . . M-maybe I’ll see you,” Stan said uncertainly as he staggered upright. “So . . . um . . .” He turned and left. It was time to pick up the gremlins anyway—the only functioning part of his brain was fixated on that thought.

When he turned the key in the ignition, the radio blared to life.

“—must remember this,

a kiss is still a kiss,

a sigh is just a sigh!

The fundamental rules app—”

He switched off the radio.

Behind him, Esmerelsa was still sitting at the table, staring at his blintz. Completely untouched.

****

Pacifica stamped on the floor. “But Daddy!”

“Now now, Daughter,” Mister Northwest chided her indulgently. “The Governor personally invited your mother and I to this dinner tonight. You know we can’t turn down an invitation like that—not if we want to maintain the current tax exempt status that allows us to keep production costs so low for our employees’ salaries to be so high.”

“A-ha! A-ha! Good one, Husband!” Missus Northwest guffawed.

“Indeed, Wife! A-ha! A-ha! We pay our workers a pittance!”

“You don’t care about me! You’ve never cared about me!” Pacifica shouted at them. “If you did, you wouldn’t go tonight . . . Wouldn’t leave me all alone . . .”

“But we aren’t leaving you alone; Benjamin will be here with you, won’t you Benjamin?”

Standing at attention beside the door, an imperturbable butler replied, “Very good, sir.”

“Good show, that man,” Missus Northwest approved.

Crossing her arms, Pacifica sulked, “I hate Benjamin . . .”

“Well, you can also invite over as many friends as you like. Benjamin won’t mind at all.”

“Very good, mum.”

“I don’t have any friends. Only parasites.”

“Capital,” Mister Northwest said, tussling her hair. “Well, must be going. Long way to drive. Benjamin, maybe draw a bath for her? Her hair could use a wash.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Fine!” Pacifica screeched as they went out the door. “Go! See if I care! I’ll probably run away while you’re gone! Disappear! Then you’ll be sorry!” It left her breathless and panting.

“Tata! Love you, Daughter!”

She glared after them. And then she saw, reflected in the glass, a tall man in black step up behind her! Its face was pale and featureless! Bending over behind her! She spun with a gasp!

It was only Benjamin. “Would the young miss care for some hot chocolate?” he offered kindly.

“N-no . . . Just . . . Lock everything and set the alarm. I don’t want anyone getting in the house.”

“To my knowledge, Miss Pacifica, no one ever enters the house uninvited.”

“K-keep it that way, Benjamin.”

Benjamin eyed her seriously. “Do we have reason to believe someone will try to get in?”

“N-no . . . It’s just . . . this fog. Makes me feel like s-someone is watching me.”

“Very good, Miss.”

****

Grenda looked around the door and into the museum portion of the Mystery Shack. “Is . . . Mister Pines alright today?” she asked Mabel.

“I think so. Why?”

Grenda looked back into the museum, where Stan was leading a tour of three older women.

“And here we have a . . . Well, as you can see, it’s a picture of a horse riding another horse. That’s all it is . . . kinda impressive. I dunno.” He shrugged listlessly. “And there’s a . . . Y’know what? Everything is pretty self-explanatory. Probably because it’s not female and doesn’t dredge up the past when you need to focus on the present and its ethical and fiduciary problems. Like, how do you get more people to come spend more money? And what are you supposed to do when you can just legally take money, even if that money rightly belongs to someone else? Doesn’t something being legal make it an acceptable course of action? But no! Females gotta come along and poke at embers you thought were long dead—stir them back into blazing life—until you just can’t care about anything else beyond the fire in your soul! So why don’t you all just come buy stuff in the gift shop when you’re done wandering around and looking at this junk? Because Stan Pines is out right now . . . I’m just out . . .”

Grenda shut the door. “No real reason, I guess.”

“You seem to be feeling better today,” Candy ventured to tell Mabel. “You are even smiling. Improvement of human Mabel?”

“Yeah, well, I just feel better today. Like I finally let some of those dark thoughts out of my head. So . . . what the heck? Random dance party?”

Sunglasses. Music. Both out of nowhere. Rhythmic movements. Putting Waddles in the air like they just don’t care (the secret being that none of them cared—not even Waddles).

This went on for a few boisterous minutes.

“You alright?” Grenda then shouted to Mabel over the music. “You look a little winded!”

“Guess I’m . . . not back to 100% quite yet,” she panted back. “My arms feel kinda heavy . . .”

“Is it maybe your goth outfit? We did put a lot of beads on it,” Candy pointed out.

Mabel shook her head. Veils whirled behind her, and nearly every inch of her sleeves and skirt sparkled like a night sky. “Not that much . . . Only like three cases, maybe?”

“But there are like fifteen pounds of beads in every case, aren’t there?” Grenda asked.

Candy gaped, “Are you wearing _forty-five_ _pounds_ _of_ _beads_?!”

“Wow . . . I’m gonna be ripped!” Mabel exalted. “But right now . . . I should probably sit down for a minute . . . Whew . . . Exercise is rough . . .”

****

“Zzzz . . .”

In the Gravity Falls library, there were two archive stations with access to scanned copies of every edition that the local newspaper (The Gossiper—founded by Detoby himself) had ever printed. Dipper sat at one. Norman slumped over the other.

From his archive station, the behatted boy said, “Hey, man. Hey. You’re asleep.”

“Zzzz . . .”

“Norman. Wake up.”

“Zzzz . . .”

Without getting up—without even tearing his gaze from the paper he was scanning—Dipper stretched out his leg and gave Norman a pushing kick. Norman then slowly toppled from his chair.

“Zzwha?! Huh?” The boy Medium yawned and pulled himself back upright. “How’d I wind up on the floor?”

“You fell asleep. Must’ve fallen over.”

“Oh . . .” Norman rubbed his eyes drowsily. “Is research always this boring?”

“Only until we know what we’re looking for. Then it gets really interesting. You find anything on weird fogs?”

“Nothing. And there are so many stories about weird things happening that I can’t possibly read all of them,” Norman groused. “I’m just skimming at this point; I could be missing tons of important stuff—patterns or odd details—that’re buried in all these articles!”

“I know how you feel,” Dipper sympathized. “At least you get to start with more recent things. I’m not even sure what half these 20s and 30s slang words mean—it’s like reading Old English, except _less_ coherent.”

“You’re sure there was nothing in . . . the you-know-what?”

With a shrug, Dipper answered, “Nothing about fog. Maybe what we’re ultimately looking for is in there somewhere, but right now the fog is our only clue. We know nothing else. You think Detoby’s having more luck asking the other ghosts?”

“I hope so . . . Do we really have to keep doing this?” Norman finally groaned. “We could like go to the arcade, watch movies, eat glass . . . Basically do _anything_ except keep looking at old newspapers!”

“Sometimes investigating things is serious w—”

Norman moaned, “Graaaaaaaaaaa!” and rolled back onto the floor.

“Well, sweep up with your broom hair while you’re down there. This place is a mess.”

“Only if you mop after me.”

“Mop? What’s that supposed to mean? My hair doesn’t look like a mop.”

“Then swiffer.”

“That makes even less sense,” Dipper said flatly.

“You make even less sense! Looking through these papers makes even less sense!”

“Sometimes boring stuff is import—”

“Graaaaaaaaaaa!”

“You gonna just moan like a dying cow every time I try—”

“Graaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Seriously, that all you’re—”

“Graaaaaaaaaaa!”

“At least let me fin—”

“Graaaaaaaaaaa!”

“That’s it. Body slam.”

“Graa—oof!”

Dipper flopped onto Norman mid-moan, and wrestling ensued—wrestling in which Dipper dominated, having the distinct advantage of not being winded from someone flopping onto his belly. This was, of course, how Detoby found them. The universe would had permitted nothing else.

{Glad to see you knuckleheads are as hard at work as I’ve been.}

Blushing (and not just because he was in a headlock), Norman said, “H-hey, Detoby. What’d you find out?”

“He’s back?” Dipper asked suspiciously. “Or is that just what you want me to think?”

“A-ask him what one of those w-words meant.”

“Ossified. What does that mean, Detoby? If you’re really there. Which I doubt.”

The Jokergeist shrugged. {Zozzled. Obviously.}

The Medium rolled his eyes in exasperation. “And what does ‘zozzled’ mean?”

{Drunk as a skunk. Tipsy as a gypsy. Or soused—}

“He says it means drunk.”

“Hmm . . . That checks out. Headlock: Release!” And Dipper jumped back to a defensive position.

“What’d you learn? Anybody notice anything unusual?”

The Jokergeist shrugged. {None of the spooky mooks I talked with know what the gist is with this chilly mist. None have seen anything odd, but most everyone seems to be staying close to home, too. Can’t see much from the living room, if you get what I mean.}

Norman sighed. “Well that’s disappointing. None of the ghosts know anything, and most have been staying indoors or close to their anchors.”

“Anchors?”

“Where they feel most at home,” Norman explained quickly. “We didn’t have much luck either. All the weather reports we’re read don’t mention any fog like this.”

{Well, I could’ve told you that.}

Norman’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

{Never seen a fog like this—not once in all the time I’ve deathed here.}

With a groan, “Graaaaaaaaaaa!” the Medium sprawled back onto the floor. “Why didn’t you tell us that sooner?! You could’ve saved us hours of boredom! He says he could’ve told us that there’s never been fog like this before!”

Dipper buried his face in his hands. “Wasted day . . . Yeah, that’s pretty graaa-worthy . . .”

{What I did see, though, and I’m not sure if it’s connected to the fog or not, is a lot of weirdoes. Black clothing. Face powder and black maquillage—even the boys. Multiple piercings—}

“Goths?” Norman asked. “Sounds like goths.”

“What about them?” Dipper inquired.

“Detoby says he’s seen a lot of them today.”

{Those are goths? But they don’t look like Germans at all.}

“For the last time, Detoby, goths aren’t German. They’re just . . . goths,” Norman concluded. “Why were there so many?”

{Search me. Searching for someone? They kept calling out the color ‘ebony’,} Detoby declared. {It did look like they were looking for someone, though, so maybe that’s a name?}

Glancing at the behatted boy, Norman asked, “You know any reason why the goths would be looking for someone named Ebony?”

Dipper shook his head. “Maybe because of their civil war thing? That’s my only guess.” Stretching, he then asked, “Wanna call it a day? We’re not making any progress here . . .”

“Sure. Wanna . . . m-maybe come over to my place for d-dinner again? I’m sure my parents won’t mind, and will p-probably be better behaved this time,” Norman offered.

“Thanks, but . . . Well, I gotta try and get Mabel to come around. Family dinner’s important, y’know . . . She talked to me this morning, so that’s a step in the right direction. Maybe soon she’ll acknowledge your existence. From there, we’ll convince her not to loathe your existence.”

{Well, one can only hope.}

As they stepped out of the library and into the gloomy evening, Norman noticed a newspaper. The headline read, “Local Student Disappears, Police Baffled by Fashion Choice”. He scooped it up and skimmed through the front page.

“What’s it say?” Dipper asked.

“Um . . . ‘Ebony Ravenspath’ is the nickname of Kennedy Jenkins—a goth who disappeared sometime last night . . .”

{So the goths were looking for . . . Is that a boy or a girl?}

“You got me . . .”

Looking around suspiciously, Dipper observed, “The fog appeared last night . . . You thinking what I’m thinking? That there might be a connection?”

Norman shrugged. “It might be a lead. We could look into it tomorrow. Bound to be more interesting than looking at old weather reports . . . Um. I’m also now thinking that maybe you shouldn’t walk home alone. J-just in case. One of my parents can drop you off, if you w-want?”

“Heh. Yeah, this fog does look like something we’d see in a horror movie, doesn’t it? Imagine how creepy it’d be to know something was hiding in it and watching you. It’d probably flip you out.”

{Swell . . . Now that’s all I can think about,} the Jokergeist griped. {Just swell . . . Bugaboo, could I ask a favor of you? Could you kick him for me, please?}

****

Stan paced. He had to, because it was no longer possible to sit still.

His thoughts were so in disorder (a mess of swinging emotions and half-formed ideas and snatches of memories he had successfully shut out for years until today) that they could hardly be called thoughts anymore.

Ten o’clock came. He could still go see her . . .

The kids had gone to bed, and Dipper was even allowed back in their shared attic bedroom. They seemed to have reached an agreement to just not talk about any subject Mabel decided to veto. Especially “the fakey”. Whoever that was—Stan had no idea, and didn’t have room in his head for that puzzle right now anyway.

A quarter past ten. Maybe now it was too late tonight?

“But she did say . . . Prob’ly a bad idea, starting this kinda crap at my . . . Then again, I am a fine specimen of . . . But I just can’t have my heart broken into thirty-seven . . . Gosh, she was beautiful . . .”

The clock tolled ten thirty, and Stan gazed at it.

“How much time do I really have left? How much have I wasted already? But . . . Who wants to risk losing more time by being so in pain you can’t—”

Ten thirty one.

“Oh . . . screw it.”

He dressed in his best suit. He splashed on some of the cologne he saved for special occasions (Masqulin. Couvre-toi la puanteur.*)—and which, as a result, he had owned since the early 80s.

He got into his car and, despite the thick fog and his thick cataracts, drove through town faster than he had ever dared attempt. Drove to the Hotel Lodge and parked behind the newish car outside room #2.

A light was visible through the curtains.

Hesitating, Stan wondered, “What if . . . No. Don’t think about the if.” He marched straight to the door and knocked. “Esmerelsa?”

Tentatively, she opened the door. “Mi eStanford?”

“Hey, um . . . I’m not very good at romantic talk, so . . .” He pulled her into him and kissed her.

She held him tight through the kiss, but managed to signal that he should step inside (as a master dancer leads seemingly through telepathy).

He stepped in with her. Kicked the door shut behind them.

And if someone had listened close enough through the door (presumably a voyeuristic pervert, but maybe not necessarily), they would have heard her say, “Kiss me, mi eStanford! Kiss me like you kissed me that first time in Bogota!”

“But we were both dressed up like nuns then.”

“Then kiss me like you kissed me when we escaped los tombos in the middle of a dance fiesta!”

“But we were both wearing fruit hats that time. Like Carmen Miranda.”

“Then kiss me . . . like you just barely kissed me now. Long and passionately!”

“Okeydokey.”

****

The call would not go through.

Pacifica had tried a dozen different times in a dozen different rooms of the family mansion.

The result was always the same; the call would not go through.

“But it’s outside somewhere . . .” she whimpered at the phone. “Around the house . . . Please, Daddy . . . Momma . . . Answer the phone! Help me . . . Why won’t you help me?”

“Miss Pacifica!” Benjamin pleaded through the office door. “Please unbarricade yourself!”

“If I open the door, it’ll get in!”

“What will, Miss Pacifica?”

“The . . . the man without a face! Too tall! Too thin! If I open the door—”

“Miss Pacifica,” Benjamin tried to reason with her. “There is no one in the house but you or I, and I give you my solemn vow as an English gentleman’s gentleman that no one will get past me.”

A moment of silence. “You promise?”

“Yes. Now please open the door; you know your father doesn’t like anyone to enter his study.”

Another moment of silence, then the door was unbolted. The young blonde looked up at him with eyes swollen from crying. “Help me, Benjamin . . . I’m so scared . . .”

“So I understand. Now, what’s all this tosh about a man without a face?” he asked gently.

“I keep s-seeing him. He’s following me everywhere!” Pacifica choked out. “He’s out in the yard right now—I can hear him walking around, looking for a way in!”

Benjamin could have said nothing was out there, that he had checked the security cameras and seen nothing at all. He could have tried to convince her that this sudden panic attack was irrational, probably due to the bizarre weather. He could have murmured reassuring nothings to her. But Benjamin was English, and therefore practical. It wouldn’t help to tell her there was nothing to be afraid of outside the house; she was already certain there was.

But he could convince her that whatever she thought was there would regret messing with him. “Everything is bolted twice. And the alarm is set. It cannot get in without us knowing. And if it tries to come inside, well . . . Have I ever told you about my childhood in Manchester, Miss Pacifica?”

“N-no . . .”

He nodded, taking her hand. “Well, the streets of Manchester are a mean place. You’ve seen me carve up a turkey and serve it for dinner, yes? How easy and clean I make that look? Well, back home, I learned how to carve up a man and serve him for dinner in half the time without an apron or a knife. Anyone tries to come in and get you, I will do that to them. You hear me, Miss Pacifica?”

“Y-yes.”

“I’m scarier than anything out there by half. And I’m on your side. Now, how about we go down to the kitchen and get ourselves armed? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Y-you promise I’m safe?”

“We are as safe as safe can—”

The lights flickered. The lights went out. All of them. Pacifica whimpered.

“Bugger,” he muttered to himself “And I just had her calmed down.”

**LONELINESS**

Pacifica shrieked and let go of his hand! Cowered against the hallway wall! “Did you hear that?!”

Confused, Benjamin asked, “Hear what? There’s nothing at—”

Staring past him at the office window, she pointed and screamed, “It passed by the window!”

Benjamin spun in spite of himself. But there was nothing beyond the window but fog. He turned back around with something coaxing on his lips (possibly “Steady on, lass.”) but it never got off them. Pacifica had bolted! Bolted down the darkened hallway and he couldn’t see which way! “Miss Pacifica?! Come back! There’s nothing to be afraid—”

The front door was opened. Unmistakably the front door. Its sound was so distinct.

But the alarm did not go off. Not with the power suddenly out.

“MISS PACIFICA! DON’T GO OUTSIDE! STAY IN THE HOUSE!”

He bolted after her himself! Flew through the hallway! Flew through the front door into the fog!

Ahead of him (somewhere in this bloody soup!) she was sobbing for breath—still running away! Running from safety, the little twit of a frightened lass!

“MISS PACIFICA! PACIFICA! COME BACK!”

“It’s after me! After meEEEEE!”

**COME PLAY**

“No! NO! HELP! HELP ME, BENJA—”

There was a slow flash of cold light—a torch? a car?—and she shrieked!

And then darkness and silence again.

“Miss Pacifica!?”

No answer.

“MISS PACIFICA! ANSWER ME, GIRL!”

Still no answer.

Benjamin ran to where he had seen the light, but found nothing. He searched frantically, and then drew his cellphone to call for help—first the police, then her parents, then anyone who could help! But it still couldn’t connect. He cursed it uproariously, and then ran back inside to find the landline. Every second searching for it felt like a wasted eternity. But every minute waiting for the police to arrive was longer; it was minute of not knowing where the young miss was.

The minutes of wrenching uncertainty didn’t stop when the police began to search the grounds; they dragged on into hours. When Tuesday morning finally dawned, Pacifica Northwest was still nowhere to be found.

It was like she had just disappeared from off the face of the Earth.


	11. Chapter 11

{The taco is a talk-o because it can talk! Oh! The taco is a talk-o because it can talk! Oh!}

Detoby drifted beside the giant floating taco, singing praises to its greatness.

Norman, meanwhile, stared at it in awe. It was easily as big as he was.

“This is why Taco Tuesdays must happen!”

Dipper walked past Norman to embrace the giant floating taco. Climbed atop it.

{Will you not bow down before the Lord of Lunch?}

“Um . . . It’s cool, but it’s just a big taco . . .”

Dipper gasped. “You have angered the Lord of Lunch! A paper storm comes!”

Thunder and lightning overhead. And then newspapers fell from the sky. Buried Norman.

“D-Dipper! Help!”

“You’re forgetting something,” Dipper replied from astride the giant floating taco. “You’ll find it if you look through your archives.”

Norman grabbed the nearest paper and looked at the front page. It had a picture of him on it. “Kid Prepares for First Day of School.”

“What is this supposed to mean?”

He grabbed another one. “Kid Visits Candy Shop, Bookstore, Returns Home.”

“Huh? What’s so important about this?”

And another one. “Ghosts Dislike Bizarre Weather Pattern, Choose to Stay Indoors.”

“So?” Norman demanded. “What does any of this mean?”

“You’ll find the secret to the fog demon if you look through them. You know that already.”

“But it’s so boring!”

“Sometimes, investigating things is serious work.”

“Then why don’t you help?”

“They aren’t my archives. I can’t. Besides, I must serve the Lord of Lunch!”

“Don’t go!” Norman pleaded.

Standing atop the giant floating taco, Dipper proclaimed, “I will return for you!”

And they flew off into the sunset, leaving a rainbow of ingredients behind them. Red tomatoes, orange “meat”, yellow cheese, green lettuce, blue byproducts, and purple hot sauce packets.

“Wait! Take me with you!” Norman called.

He struggled against the newspapers, but they entangled him! He thrashed and more tumbled around him!

“Sunnier Moods in Cloudier Weather.”

“Friendship Found to Reduce Feelings of Cold by 100%.”

“Forecast of Fog Days in Advance Ignored by Meteorologist.”

“Overthrown Goth Disappears Shortly After New Goth Takes Power.”

“Witnesses Describe Event as ‘Chilly’ Investigators Say.”

Norman tried to push the flood of newspapers back, but they washed him away! Onto his back! He was swept off against—

Thump!

The floor. Norman had tangled himself in his blanket, and then fallen out of bed.

He sighed. “Well, least no one saw that . . . And at least that stupid alarm didn’t interrupt—”

“Rargh . . . Rargh . . . Rargh . . .”

****

“Gruncle Stan? Gruncle Stan? GRUNCLE STAN!”

Mabel, only just barely dressed in her goth finery, looked down the stairs. “What’s with all the shout-shout, bro-bro?”

“Stan isn’t here. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s weird. Y’know, if we all just had cellphones, I could call him and find out what the deal is,” Dipper said crossly. “Poor strategy, that’s what this is.”

“Srategy? What? You expecting some sorta assault at dawn from our enemies? ‘Cause we got soooooo many enemies,” Mabel returned sarcastically.

“Have you been paying attention at all? We _do_ have so many enemies!”

“Oh, yeah . . . I guess it is kinda weird that none of them have tried to get revenge on us.”

Dipper added (with the ominousness that only the truly paranoid can feel), “Yet . . .”

But Stan returned seconds later with a bakery bag and the biggest smile his face could hold. “Morning, gremlins! Who wants blintzes?”

“Blintzes?” Dipper repeated questioningly. “Now, isn’t a blintz a military strategy?”

“Blintzes are like those really thin, sweet pancakes,” Mabel explained.

“Crepes?”

“They are not! They’re delicious!”

Meanwhile, Stan was setting the table. Actually setting the table. And humming while he did it. Actually humming. Dipper narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “This is weird . . . Something is definitely weird about Gruncle Stan today . . .”

Moving to take her place at the table, Mabel advised, “Just roll with it. Nothing that leads to blintzes can be bad. Am I ever glad this black lipstick doesn’t smear!”

“H-hey! You’re eating!” Dipper realized all of a sudden.

“Yeah, I’m hungry.”

“Well . . . Well, good!”

****

The Death Card was removed. The deck was shuffled seven times. The cards were launched directly upward.

And they all landed facedown outside the circle. Again.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. A second time. This is most confusing . . . Most vexing. I am not sure what to make of it.”

Stooping to gather the deck and slip it back into his pocket, the man with hard, sharp features pursed his narrow lips. The Deck of Providence had never failed him before; never had it been unable to locate his prey. Not even death had hidden his prey before. And yet now—

A funeral bell tolled from his pants’ pocket. “Si?”

“Señor El Condor! How are you, mi amigo? You are well?” A voice asked boisterously in Spanish.

“Si. Why have you called? I do not waste my breath on pleasantries.”

“I was merely hoping for an update on your little search. Is it going well?”

“Si. I will call you when we have something to report. Do not ever interrupt my work again unless you have something _important_ to tell me.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Infuriated silence. “El Condor, you seem to forget who is El Jefe of El Cartel.”

“Si? You seem to forget who killed the last El Jefe for you so you could take his place. Remember that I agreed to help you not because you offered me more (even though you wisely did), but because he annoyed me. Do not make the same mistake. I will call you when we have something to report.”

And he terminated the call.

“Ehehehehehe?”

With a sigh, the man with hard, sharp features concurred, “Si. No one appreciates that quality takes time. A well-done job will take however long a well-done job will take.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. There is once again nothing more we can do today, so we may as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. If you wish, we will go see another art museum today. You know I can never deny you anything, mi amigo.”

****

Soos had already arrived for work and was doing a quick sweep of the gift shop floor by the time Stan returned from dropping off the kids. As was his nature, Soos smiled agreeably over at his boss. “Morning, Mister Pines!”

Later, Soos would realize he should have known something was off when his boss smiled back. That was when the weirdness began.

“Good morning, Soos! How you do-do-do-doing today?” Stan hummed.

“Very great! Thank you for asking.”

“That’s great. Really great. Soos, I have some good news for you,” Stan announced cheerily. “You’ve got the whole day off. We’re not opening the Shack today!”

Confused, Soos asked, “What? Why?”

“Eh, what’s the point? No one’s gonna come today, so we might as well spend it doing things that make us realize how wonderful it is to be alive.” Flipping the Open/Closed sign around, he went on, “Because it is wonderful to be alive! So go out there and do something that makes you happy! The world is your oyster—your big, foggy oyster!”

Soos stared.

“That’s a dumb expression,” Stan mused aloud. “Who seriously wants a world like a slimy oyster, anyway? Must’ve been coined by someone who was in love with someone who loves oysters . . . And I can respect that.”

“Um . . . I hadn’t really planned on doing anything today, Mister Pines. And it does make me happy to work here. So, um . . . Do I have to go?”

“You’d rather spend your day off in here rather than going out and doing something else?”

“Um . . . Yes?”

Dollar signs may or may not have appeared in Stan’s eyes. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I guess it’d be _wrong_ and _tyrannical_ of me to tell you how to spend your day off. I mean, if _you_ _honestly_ _want_ to spend it volunteering at work (andthereforenotgettingpaid), who am I to refuse you? It is nothing less than a moral duty that I allow you to volunteer today (ifyouagreetoworkingwithoutpay,saysonow).”

Soos beamed, “You’ll never live to regret this!”

“I’m sure I won’t. You understand I’m not going to be here, right? I have . . . things to do today.”

“Of course! I will man the fort like a . . . man who . . . mans the forts . . .”

The prospect of getting a day’s work out of an employee without having to pay them anything? Ca-ching! On top of spending the day with Esmerelsa? Heart-sing!

“This is gonna be the best day ever for Stan Pines!”

****

The Northwests’ various businesses did not open Tuesday morning, but every employee was still on the clock. They were all organized into groups of three or four and, acting under the supervision of the sheriff’s office, dispatched throughout the town and into the surrounding woodlands. Every group had at least one picture of Pacifica (and also of Kennedy Jenkins—aka Ebony Ravenspath—but it wasn’t even half the size of Pacifica’s glamour shot). Her name echoed sporadically throughout the valley.

Meanwhile, the Northwests waited in their home office with all their many phones laying before them on a table. Waited for a call from Pacifica, or from . . . Someone with news of Pacifica. Yes.

“Do you think . . .” Missus Northwest cleared her throat. “There seems to be some interference with the phones. Electrical . . . Problems with the carrier, maybe? Do you think that . . . could be the reason no one—the reason she hasn’t called?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing our money can do about the weather yet. We just have to . . . wait from something to happen,” Mister Northwest declared feebly.

Benjamin entered with a tray of coffee and set about serving it to everyone present. Some might have thought he was, as always, imperturbable; the more observant would have noticed that his hands were trembling. He was neither keeping calm nor carrying on.

“Thank you, Benjamin,” Mister Northwest said perfunctorily.

“Very good, sir. If that is all, I would like to beg permission to join the search parties.”

“No. You’re a witness. You need to be immediately on hand for the police.”

“If I may make so bold, sir, you fail to take into consideration the nigh teleporting speed at which a good butler can move when needed.”

“No, Benjamin. Get some sleep for now; you’ve been up all night. Incidentally, that’s an order. I’ll fire you if you don’t follow it.”

“Very good, sir. I must take the liberty of tendering my resignation to spare you the trouble.”

The Northwests looked up. Sheriff Blubbs and Deputy Durland looked up.

“It has been a pleasure working for you, sir,” Benjamin declared as he set his tray on a table.

“You can’t quit!”

“I am not _quitting_; I am _resigning_.”

“Well then, you can’t resign!”

“Forgive me, sir, but I do believe this is America. You cannot impede me leaving your service.”

People dislike being told what they can and cannot do; it’s human nature. Rich people dislike it even more. “I’m the mayor and I’m rich. So help me, if I have to have Sheriff Blubbs lock you in a jail cell to make you get some sleep, I will do it.”

Sheriff Blubbs flashed his badge defensively. “That’s not how the law works!”

Mister Northwest flashed his wallet full of money.

“You make a compelling legal argument, Mister Mayor. How can I protect and serve you today?”

“Stand down. Benjamin, what is this about?”

The Butler coughed dryly—for him, the equivalent of breaking down in tears. “I made a promise, sir, to you and to the lady of the house that I would look after Miss Pacifica. And I made a promise to her that I would protect her. And I didn’t . . . This is my fault. I have to put it right, sir.”

“You can’t do anything now, Benjamin. N-none of us can. Get some rest; we might need you later at full capacity for . . . reasons relating to your past experience in Manchester. Please.”

Another dry cough, and then a dry bow. “Very good, sir. I will be in my room if I am needed. Shall I take the liberty of sharpening the cutlery?”

“If you wish.”

“Very good, sir.”

****

{Steady . . . Steady . . . Almost th—Ah! You missed it, Bugaboo!}

Norman gritted his teeth and held his temper. Ignoring Detoby, he tried again.

{Slowly . . . Deliberately . . . Just about—No! So close!}

“Will you shut up?!” Norman hissed at the Jokergeist. “How am I supposed to focus?! Now, again. Just one more try . . .”

“You want me to do that for you?” Dipper offered.

“No.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m good,” Norman groused back. “I just need everyone living and dead to stop distracting me.”

“It isn’t that hard, really.”

“Your face isn’t . . . that hard . . . Shut up.” And Norman prepared for one more try.

{Just inch that thread closer to the needle and—Shoot! Almost, that time!}

With a hulk-like roar of rage, Norman slammed the Home Ec department’s sewing implements back onto the table. “Why are we learning to do this?!” he demanded. “What practical application could it possibly have in this day and age?! If I ever rip my clothes, I will just buy new clothes! Like any sane, sensible person would!”

“Here. Let me.” And with a quick lick to the thread, Dipper slipped it effortlessly through the eye of the needle. In less than three seconds, he accomplished what Norman couldn’t do in three minutes.

The Medium glowered at the behatted boy. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Well . . . Maybe a little?”

“How can you be enjoying this?”

“It’s not that hard once you get the hang of it,” Dipper said defensively. “And if a minute with some thread can save you all the trouble of having to go shop for and then buy new clothes, well . . . That’s just logically more manly than not.”

{It’s more manly to sew?} the Jokergeist repeated skeptically. {In my experience, it’s the classic occupation of women and the French. Neither of whom are—by definition—all that manly.}

Norman sighed. “Detoby is saying sexist and racist things about sewing, and I don’t even care because he’s right. Sewing is not manly.”

“Shopping is less manly, and so is spending money frivolously,” Dipper contested.

“No, they’re not. Sewing is as _not_ _manly_ as it gets. You gonna cross-stitch a floral pattern now and try to tell me it’s not girly?”

“Now listen here; I’m manly as fricative!” Dipper growled. “If I choose to fecund cross-stitch some fecund pink tulips, then (by association _with me_) those pink tulips will be fecund manly!”

“Mister Pines!” the teacher said, clearly scandalized. “Watch your language!”

“I am! ‘Fecund’ means ‘fruitful’; it’s not swearing! Look it up!”

“Mister Babcock, sit back down and continue your sewing project.”

With bad grace and a lot of grumbling, Norman reclaimed his seat. Eventually, he muttered, “Thanks for threading this shanty thing for me . . . You’re plenty manly . . .”

“Heck yeah. Only one in this room who’s wrestled a magical bear-creature into submission.”

“Heh. Y-yeah . . .”

{Personally, I’ve always thought carnations were the manliest of all possible flowers. Except for cactus blossoms, I suppose.}

Norman laughed again, then said to his friend, “Y’know, you never did explain exactly _why_ the Manotaurs wanted you to kill—”

The buzz of the intercom. The boom of the Principal’s voice being broadcasted into every class and hallway of the school. “Teachers and Students, Ladies and Gentlemen. I have just been informed that local student and town popularity queen Pacifica Northwest disappeared late last night. The police are currently investigating and urge anyone—what’s that? Oh. Also, prominent goth Kenny Jenkies is also missing and presumed dead-looking since sometime Sunday evening. The police urge anyone with information regarding these disappearances to come forward immediately so that we can see them returned safe to their homes and homerooms. An officer is currently in my office, ready to take down statements from anyone who thinks they might know something relevant. That is all.”

A buzz of conversation ran through the room. Dipper and Norman both met each other’s gaze.

“Two disappearances in two days . . .”

“Two days since the fog started . . .”

{You boys think it’s connected?}

“Seems likely,” the Medium said, before adding to Dipper, “That there’s a connection.”

“Detoby know anything about disappearances in Gravity Falls?”

{Zilch.}

“He said he doesn’t. I think. So at least looking won’t be a huge waste of time.”

****

Who has money for flowers? Who is stupid enough to buy flowers when you can steal them?

That was Stan’s reasoning, and also the reason the bouquet he held ready to offer Esmerelsa had roots at the bottom of it. But he figured that was just a plus; if she really liked them, now she could plant them and have them all year round! The gift of an eternal bouquet! That’s how you do thoughtful.

He knocked twice on her door, then swept in with a “Buenos—dear me . . .”

The bed had been stripped. All the furniture had been stripped and piled together in the middle of the room. The walls were bare. And maneuvering around this mess was Esmerelsa with an industrial-strength carpet cleaner. She wore rubber gloves, an apron, a surgical mask, and goggles.

“Still have . . . that phobia . . . I take it?” Stan faltered.

“Phobia? No, the phobias are irrational. This is esimple caution against esickness, mi eStanford.”

“Yeah . . . Um . . . I brought you flowers. I hope you like them.”

She stopped cleaning and came over to admire them. “For me? eSo beautiful. Gracias . . .”

“You’re sure you like them? When I stopped to pick them, I forgot—pick them out, by the way, not just pick them from some people’s yards—I forgot you had this thing . . .”

“Well, we just put them in a clear plastic bag like eso . . . Perfecto! Beautiful forever!”

“Yeah. It really makes them shine,” Stan agreed automatically. “So, um . . . Should I come back? Maybe after the compulsive cleaning?”

“No, estay! Please!” she insisted. “I can clean around you. I’ll even wait to pass . . . this machine until later. How do you esay? Aspiradora?”

“I don’t, normally,” Stan quipped before adding, “It’s called a . . . big vacuum.”

“This way, we can espeak together while I clean.”

And, in a move that proved how much Stan still cared for Esmerelsa, he asked, “Can I . . . help?”

She brightened visibly. “Si! You are eso tall! You can escrub the walls and the eceiling!”

“Yeah . . . I can definitely do that _completely_ _necessary_ thing . . .” he said with poorly-feigned enthusiasm. Just like an old married couple.

“Exquisito!” And she kissed him on his stubbly cheek. “I do the bathroom now!”

As they both started their respective tasks, Stan broached a tricky subject, “So . . . Are you here in town for El Cartel? Are they . . . looking to expand into Gravity Falls? ‘Cause I can’t really imagine magic coffee trees growing all that well in Oregon . . .”

Esmerelsa hesitated, and then admitted, “I am running from El Cartel, mi eStanford.”

The sponge of disinfectant fell from his fingers. “What?”

“I ran away from them. I decided I want my life back, eso I ran. I ended up here by asident.”

“Are they going to come looking for you?”

“I fear they probably are already. They probably esent the best . . . El Condor and—”

“And Senor Cray-Cray? Why would they send them after you?”

Again she hesitated. She didn’t lie. “I know many esecrets I imagine they want to protect . . . But I am esure they cannot find me. Not even the best. I was clever; I changed names, clothes; I buy dozens of falso plane tickets, I drive across hundreds of miles, I never leave electronic trail of money . . . There is no trail to follow . . .”

Stepping into the bathroom, Stan said, “But they’re still looking for you. They found you once.” Gently, he asked, “Is it safe here for you?”

She bit her lip. “eSafe? That does not esist . . .”

“Then . . . Maybe . . .” It was like tearing out his heart to even think it, but he made himself say, “You shouldn’t stay in Gravity Falls?”

“Would you come with me, mi eStanford? We could run together—run across la Tierra. I have enough money for both of us . . .”

Old habits forced Stan to glance up. “You do? How much?”

“Enough for us to live comfortably . . . Would you come with me?”

He looked down sadly. “I can’t. I can’t leave . . .”

Shaking her head fiercely, Esmerelsa declared, “Then no. Not again. I cannot leave you again . . . Besides, you worry too much. How could they find me here, when I left no trail at all behind me?”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutamente.”

“Because I’m not equipped to tangle with El Cartel. And I got the gremlins to think about . . .”

“Gremlins?” she repeated questioningly.

“The kids. My kids now.”

Utterly shocked, Esmerelsa sputtered. “You? You have chicos?”

“I know, right? Last thing you’d expect.”

“But . . . eSurely they must be adultos now?”

“Well, they’re not my kids-kids,” Stan explained. “They were my nephew’s daughter and son. Twins. Both thirteen. I’m sorta . . . the only family they got now . . .”

“They could come with us,” Esmerelsa pointed out hopefully.

“No, they couldn’t. See . . .” He sighed in frustration. “They’re with me because . . . You see, there was . . .” But he couldn’t voice it aloud. “What they need now—what they really need—is stability, y’know? They need a home with dependable family someplace where they can grow up with friends . . . Just be kids. They need . . . some normalcy in life.”

“And love. They need your love,” Esmerelsa said for him—said because he couldn’t say it.

“Well . . . I wouldn’t say it like that, but . . . Yeah . . . Yeah, I guess . . .” he said soberly.

The kids needed him; they depended on him. But it wasn’t just enough for him to be present. What they needed was . . . a parent figure. That is what Stan realized. They needed someone who would love them enough to never put their real needs second. Someone who would love them enough to not be selfish if a sacrifice was required for their well-being.

They needed someone who wouldn’t even think of stealing from them, at the very least . . .

And now, all they had was him . . .

“Yeesh . . . Shows you how bad it must be if they need _me_,” he joked halfheartedly.

“But I need your love, too,” Esmerelsa said softly.

“No. We’ve both proved we can survive without the other. You don’t need me; you just want me for my body—and who wouldn’t? But . . . Even if I don’t need your love to _survive_, I sure as heck _want_ your love so I can _live_.”

“Well, then . . . I will estay. El Cartel will not find me here. I am esure.”

“I hope you’re right. I don’t want to ever lose you again.”

They looked into each other’s eyes. “Kiss me, eStanford. Kiss me like you kissed me when we finally crossed into Panama on those estolen burros.”

“Let’s see . . .” He reconstructed the scene. “We were side by side, and kinda squatting . . . So like this?”

Smooching noises ensued.

“Si. Like that. Kiss me like that again.”

More smooching noises ensued.

“Y’know, if we keep kissing like this, we could be cleaning awhile.”

“I would not mind being here awhile like this, mi eStanford.”

“You’ll have to take off the gloves, though. I can’t really hold your hand while you’re wearing these thick rubber gloves. You won’t be grossed out by all my bacteria and such?”

She whispered in his ear, “I do not mind mi eStanford’s bacterias.”

Which was probably the most romantic thing (in context) anyone had ever said to him.

****

Fog lay thick upon the school grounds. From midfield, one could just barely make out the goals at either end of the soccer pitch. And yet, the Coach had students playing soccer. They were scheduled to play soccer until mid-October, so soccer is what they would play until mid-October.

Understandably, few were enthusiastic about this. Pacifica’s minions were among those least so, though both had been in a state since hearing the news of the disappearance of their friend/ringleader. It had even brought them both to screeching at each other over lunch. Minion #2 had claimed that the other had never cared about Pacifica (only the popularity of being seen with Pacifica), while Minion #1 had asserted that the other had only ever cared about Pacifica and not her. Minion #1 had then gone on to assert that no one cared about her—had never cared about her. “So just leave me alone you little . . . you little b-_bitch_! All of you just LEAVE ME ALONE!”

As it stood, neither was speaking to the other anymore. Or to anyone else, for that matter. Anyone who had tried to speak with either of them (even be it to cheer them up) had been systematically flagellated by tongue (and once even by stylish purse).

So now Minion #1 sulked alone near the penalty line, barely paying attention to the game. Boredom was setting in amidst her more turbulent emotions. She paced about and she glared about in every direction. At least until she caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of someone standing just at the edge of the woods.

When she looked back, though, there was no one there.

She shrugged and continued doing nothing. Pacing aimlessly. Looking idly this way and that. Waiting for the minutes to tick by. Then she thought she caught a glimpse of that same person standing between the woods and the pitch.

She looked again. No one. Nothing. Just empty grass and fog.

Someone yelled, “Heads up!”

The ball rolled near Minion #1, so she kicked it away as hard as she could. Probably back to the other half of the field, but who could tell? More importantly, who cared? It didn’t even matter becaus—

The person was standing at the boundary line! Looking at her!

Her head snapped in its direction. Nothing. Her heart had started racing over nothing . . .

“What the . . . ? Why’m I so jumpy all of a—”

“Pass it to me! PASS IT TO ME!”

She glanced in the direction of the shouting. Two students were engaged in a close foot-scuffle for control of the ball. Boring. Reassuringly boring. Unlike whatever she thought she had seen. What had even tricked her eyes like—

It was right in front of her! Looking down at here, but it had not eyes! No nose or mouth! Nothing—no face! So tall and thin! So pale! Hands reaching for her like death!

She closed her eyes to scream!

But it was gone when she opened them again. Nothing was there.

Nothing except a soccer ball.

“Huh?”

PAFF!

And then Minion #1 was laid out flat on the ground, bleeding waterfallingly from the nose—that was the only way to accurately describe the amounts of and the trajectory of all the blood gushing from her nostrils.

****

Eventually, Stan did have to leave the Hotel Lodge to pick up the kids from school. True, Dipper was probably going to be off with his new friend—“Dipper with friends . . . Wow. That is still a hard one to fathom. But good for him. About time people started seeing how great a little man he is . . .”—but Stan still had to make an appearance, at least.

Besides, Esmerelsa needed some alone time to clear out her ventilation system. This was absolutely not a euphemism for anything; she had rented a pressurized air cannon and purchased filters with the expressed intent of “blasting out every especk of dust in this hotel”. She had cautioned him that this process wasn’t for the faint of heart, and he had elected to come back later that evening.

Coming to a stop at a red light halfway to the school, Stan glanced out the window. An old man was walking down the sidewalk with a young boy and a girl—maybe twins—holding to his hands.

“—and den, Pop-Pop, teachew said I got da best mad scowe in da entiwe class!” the girl larked. “And den, and den it was awt class time! I painted pictuwes of ouw family!”

“Well, that sounds like it was loads of fun,” the old man chuckled. “But, I see you got some paint on you. Right under your ear. Oh, no . . . It’s not paint . . .” And he produced a quarter from her ear. “Well, now, how did that get there?” he said in mock surprise. “Must be yours.”

With the wide, delighted eyes of a child, she accepted it. “Weally, Pop-Pop? I can keep it?”

“Of course you can keep it. You should keep it, because it’s your money.”

Stan made a sound of disgust. But the light still hadn’t changed.

The boy, meanwhile, tugged on the hand he held. “Do I have any behind my eaws, Pop-Pop?”

“Hmm . . . Not that I can see . . . But there does seem to be something in your teeth. Say ‘aw’.” And, when the boy opened his mouth as wide as he could, the old man did the same trick. “Well, now, what’ve you been eating? You should put this money in your pocket, not in your chompers.”

The boy giggled as he received his and slipped it into a pocket. “Thanks, Pop-Pop.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s your money, after all.”

Stan gritted his teeth and glared at the red light. “Will this stupid thing never change?!” He tried to roll up the window, but the crank seemed to be stuck.

And, practically outside the car window, the old man chuckled again. “What kind of man would I be if I stole money from my own grandkids?”

“A tewwible one, Pop-Pop,” the boy said solemnly.

“Uttewly execwable,” he girl agreed innocently.

“But youw not. You’we a good Pop-Pop, and we love you.”

“I love you, too, kids.”

Stan beat his head against the steering wheel.

But the light still hadn’t changed.

Then, with a low groan, he capitulated. “Fine . . .” he growled at the universe. “You win . . .”

The light changed.

It surprised Stan to find no less than five kids waiting for him when he arrived at the school; Mabel Syrup with her two friends Candy and Grenda, and Dipping Sauce with his friend . . . Paintbrush (or whatever—Stan was too preoccupied to bother with names when self-evident nicknames sufficed).

“Hi, Mister Pines!” Mabel’s two friends chorused.

“Hey, Gruncle Stan,” Dipper said. His friend waved shyly.

Mabel, meanwhile, said nothing. She appeared to be too busy looking anywhere but at Dipper and his friend. She climbed into the car first to make sure she was as far from either of them as possible.

“Everybody for the Mystery Shack?” Stan asked with forced cheeriness. “Hop on, then. Ladies. Dipper. Paintbrush.”

{Heh. Paintbrush . . .} the Jokergeist chuckled. {I should tell that to Elaine tonight. It’s classic.}

Dipper groaned, “Gruncle Stan, please.”

“What? So the five of you going to hang out together?”

Mabel made a “Hmph!”

“Get up to hijinks and lowjinks? Youthful misadventures? Teenage romances?”

Mabel made another “Hmph!” Norman and Candy both blushed and tried not to look at Dipper, who rolled his eyes at his great-uncle. Grenda was trying on Mabel’s goth hat, and not paying attention.

“Because those will have to wait,” Stan declared succinctly. “I’ve got some . . . errands to run, and Soos has pretty much been running the Shack all day—”

Dipper and Mabel were both flabbergasted. “All day? Alone?”

“Well, I’m not seeing any black smoke rising through the trees, so everything must still be okay,” Stan reasoned. “The point is that I want you all to . . . basically make sure it continues to be okay until I get back. I tried giving him the day off and just closing the place, but he insisted on volunteering in case anyone showed up, and I’m just too tenderhearted for my own good.”

“Tenderhearted?” Dipper repeated suspiciously.

Mabel had picked up on it, too. “Volunteering? Gruncle Stan, are you trying to cheat Soos into working for free again? You know that’s unethical, immoral, illegal, and a sin in like every religion!”

“Yeah! What Mabel said!” Dipper agreed heartily.

She turned away from him with a “Hmph! Still not talking to you, Dipstick.”

Dipper made a gesture of frustration at her, like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Turning back to Stan, he challenged him, “What have you been up to all day anyway, old man?”

“Adulting,” Stan replied evasively. “Doing stuff to stuff. Grown-up stuff. Stuff that’s none of your business anyway, kid.” His great-nephew narrowed his eyes suspiciously at that—something which Stan saw clearly in the rearview mirror. “I’m not expecting there to be many rubes at all, but you’re all to man . . . and I guess to woman whatever posts Soos needs help with. Clear?” he growled.

“Gruncle Stan—”

“Is that clear?”

“Fine,” Dipper relented. “But I’ve got my eye on you, old man.”

“Yeah . . . I know . . .” Stan said with uncharacteristic soberness.

When they arrived, both the Shack and Soos were still standing. The former looked unchanged; the latter (standing at full salute) looked battered, singed, and soaked.

“S-Soos!” Mabel said in alarm.

“What the heck happened to you, man?!” Dipper burst out.

“Well, it’s a long story, dudes, and all connected to my mysterious past. Full of excitement and intrigue and unexpected romance—”

“No time for romance!” Stan shouted from his car. “There is to be no more of this probably entertaining foray into the character and backstory of Soos! We’ve got too much going on as it is!”

“But there was a kelpie and a djinn and a—”

“I don’t care if there was an easily-seduced beauty queen guarding a map to Confederate gold! You are all forbidden from ever broaching this subject again! The Shack is still standing; that is adequate. I will see you all in a while.” And Stan wheeled around to drive back into town.

Patting Soos’ shoulder, Mabel consoled him, “Don’t worry. I’m sure there will be an appropriate occasion for you to tell us all about your mysterious backstory one of these days.”

“Yeah,” Dipper concurred. “And it’ll be epic. Absolutely e—”

Mabel made a “Hmph!” and marched into the Mystery Shack with her friends.

“What, seriously?!” her brother demanded. “WE GET THE COMPUTER! WE HAVE WORK TO DO!”

{Tsk. Women,} Detoby said sympathetically. {And now that they can vote—thank you _very_ much, President Wilson—there’ll be no stopping them.}

“S-sorry about this,” Norman murmured self-effacingly.

“Not your fault,” Dipper said at once. “We’d better snag the computer and get to researching. How’ve you been holding up, Soos? Apart from the kelpie and the djinn, I mean?”

“Great!” he replied enthusiastically. “Apart from nearly being drowned and burned to death at the same time, the day has been great! We even had three customers, and I led the tour and even ran the gift shop all by myself! Best day for Soos ever!”

“As always, man, you rock.”

“Dude, you know it.” And they fistbumped. “You want in on this, Paintbursh?”

“Um . . .”

“C’mon, man. You know you do,” Dipper urged him. “This is a _Soos_ fistbump. They’re awesome.”

“O-okay.”

The three (plus Detoby) fist-bumped. And it was pretty awesome.

****

Morose and miserable (and with an impressively bruised and swollen nose), Minion #1 watched as her parents—in full country-music apparel—prepared to depart for an evening together in Eugene.

“Thanks for coming over on such short notice,” her mother said to the babysitter.

The babysitter made a dismissive gesture. “No prob at all. Always happy to make some more shoe money.”

“Your parents know we’re not getting back until well after midnight, right? That you’re basically spending the night and going from here to school tomorrow?”

“Just means you pay me more. Dad is alright with that.”

“Heh. Yeah, I’ll bet he is. Now, there’s dinner in the fridge for both of you, and you can even have some ice cream for dessert. Just keep the portions reasonable.”

“You got it.”

“Also . . .” In a lowered voice, “She’s been really upset ever since she learned about . . . Pacifica.”

“Yeah . . . So sad. I heard some people think that goth who disappeared kidnapped her . . .”

“Well, that seems a little farfetched. I’ve known Kennedy pretty much since birth. Anyway, see if there’s anything you can do to cheer her up—you know how she’s always looked up to you.”

“Will do.”

Minion #1 watched as her father slipped an arm around her mother. “Honey, we’re going to be late. We should’ve left twenty minutes ago.”

“Alright. You two have fun,” she said to the babysitter before calling out, “Love you, Baby!”

And then they vanished into the fog—a fog that would clear up outside the valley.

Locking the door, the babysitter said, “You wanna come down? I have to do so homework first, but I figure we can watch some of those fashion reality-TV shows together once I’m done. Maybe do some mani-pedis?”

“No,” Minion #1 replied bitterly. “I wanna go with Dad and Mom.”

“Aw, hon, you know that parents occasionally need some time alone, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t leave me if they cared about me.”

“Aw, hon, they’re not leaving you. Besides, this gives us a chance to—”

“Just leave me alone!” And she stormed to her room and slammed the door.

The babysitter sighed. “Okay . . . Might be a long night . . .”

Upstairs, Minion #1 sniffed and sulked. She wasn’t going to cry, but she felt like it. Today had been the absolute worst day ever; Pacifica disappearing, that huge fight with her friend, the soccer ball, a flunked geography quiz, that weird person she thought she kept seeing . . .

Even now, it felt like someone was watching her. But when she looked out her window, no one was there. Just a backyard full of fog and weak afternoon sunlight.

Just to be sure, though, she closed the blinds.

****

In an underground room lit only by candles, five grand goths rose to welcome the newly-arrived sixth grand goth. Their highest-ranking member, a girl who looked like a Vietnamese Helena Bonham, greeted him for them all. “Hail, Paul Ovtarzis—Grand Goth of the Woodbury Consortium!”

“Hail! Well met by candle light, my fellow guardians of the Dark Order!” he returned.

“You have our gratitude for coming.”

“When a Dark Council is called, one must answer it. I am honored you would include me.”

“You are the closest to Gravity Falls, and most threatened by their heretical revolution.”

Paul Ovtarzis spat on the ground. “Yes. I am. But also the best placed to quell it. I have a proposal, if you are willing to listen to one as lowly as I.”

“We would most gladly hear your counsel,” she stated, and her fellows agreed.

Seating himself in a high-backed chair—one of six in a circle—he declared, “From what I have seen on the message boards, it is Samuel Turley who is at the head of this sacrilegious movement. He, rogue Keeper of the Precepts, has convinced the Consortium that the Promised One has come to them.”

“Outrageous!”

“Unforgivable!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

Vietnamese Helena Bonham held up a jewelry-covered hand for silence.

“In her name, he has cast down Ebony Ravenspath and set himself up as de facto Grand Goth. Now, we must not underestimate his charisma or his cunning. I know Samuel Turley; it surprises me that one so devout should become so depraved . . . Saddens me as well,” Paul Ovtarzis added sincerely. “But it does not surprise me that the Consortium would be swayed by his words and follow after him.”

“Are you suggesting we merely need to cut off the head of this movement?”

“Yes. If he recants, the others will repent. This revolution will then die. I am certain of this.”

A murmur of agreement ran among the others. Vietnamese Helena Bonham nodded to herself. “Your idea is direct and bold. How can we—”

The basement door was opened, flooding the Dark Council with cursed light. One or two shielded their faces from it with a hiss.

“Mom!” the girl like a Vietnamese Helena Bonham protested. “We’re scheming here!”

“Sorry, Sweetie, but I need to put these clothes in to wash. By the way, I made bánh bông lan for you and your friends. I even used the Halloween cookie cutters, so they look like bats and skulls.”

One of the other grand goths asked, “What’s in b . . . er, in this?”

“It’s basically sponge cake,” the girl answered irritably.

“And don’t worry, Johnny,” the mother of Vietnamese Helena Bonham said to the asker. “I made them gluten free, just for you.”

“You are an angel of darkness,” he replied around a mouthful.

“Oh, you!” she laughed, returning upstairs. “You kids have fun scheming!”

“And how are we supposed to scheme with all this noise from the washing machine, Mom?!”

“It does not matter,” Paul Ovtarzis insisted, speaking over the din. “I have actually formulated a plan, and set it in motion. If it meets your approval, I shall execute it on Thursday.”

“Please explain.”

And he did.

One of the others asked, scandalized, “You would have us work with the Meatheads?!”

“Work _with_ us? No. Work _for_ _us_ to _end_ the spread of this blasphemy? Yes. We must use whatever means are at our disposal,” he asserted. “I have read already that a consortium in Connecticut has adopted its principles. That others are foundering across the nations. We must act decisively.”

Vietnamese Helena Bonham rose. “He is right, my fellow grand goths. Do it, Paul Ovtarzis! Bring us the cloak of this heretic! And may the Darkness be over you to shield you from the light!”

****

“Mister Pines?” Mildly surprised, Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) rose and made a slow bow. “Welcome. Please come in and sit down. How can I help you today?”

Stan’s teeth were gritted, as if he was preparing for the fight of his life. When he moved, it was with the stiffness of a man who makes himself walk over hot coals or through a mountain of manure because he must. He sat and clenched the armrests of the chair.

“Mister Pines?” the lawyer prompted him.

“I . . . nnneed . . . a contract . . .” Stan tortured himself into saying.

“I see. And the purpose of this contract?”

“To make me . . . NNNNNOT . . . take . . . ANY . . . of . . . the K-KIDS’ . . . MMMONEY! Phew . . .” He allowed himself a chance to breathe after that; he had said the impossible.

Somewhat puzzled, Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) asked, “You mean . . . the percentage of the annual interest to which you are entitled?”

“Yes. Except . . . I’m not . . . It’s the little gremlins’ money and . . . NNNNNNOT . . . MMMMINE! Phew . . .”

In a way, it was like watching someone weightlift.

“You wish me to draft a contract in which you pledge to not accept any percentage of the trust’s annual interest?”

“Yes. Not even a penny of it. Those exact words should prob’ly be in it. Several times. In red.”

“But you are the trustee and the legal guardian; you have discretion over the funds in question.”

“Your point?”

“If you wish to dispose of this money which (I must repeat) is legally yours—”

Stan shouted desperately, “STOP SAYING THAT!”

“—by adding it to the amount in trust, you are completely at liberty to do this,” the lawyer pointed out dryly. “You don’t need a contract to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” Stan forced himself to say.

With a skeptically raised eyebrow, Arnold Arnaque (Esq.) rhetoricized, “You mean to tell me that you need a glorified piece of paper in order to do this?”

“Yes!”

“In order to do . . . something you believe is morally right?”

“Yes,” Stan repeated gravely. “I would think this would be easy for a lawyer to get. Your whole profession is built around the idea that people need glorified pieces of paper to tell them what they can and can’t do.”

“Touché, I suppose.”

“I like money. A lot,” Stan explained tragically. For him, this was a tragedy to rival anything written by any dead Greek person ever. “But . . . This money was meant for Dipper and Mabel . . . Shouldn’t take it—I shouldn’t! But . . . I will if something doesn’t stop me . . .”

An appraising nod. “You must love them very much.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Stan gruffed and grumbled. “So I want it to say all the interest stays in there. None of it comes out; I’m not taking any. Ever.”

“The terms are simple enough. I can have this drafted in a few minutes if you’re willing to wait.”

“Yeah . . . Need to get it signed as soon as possible . . .”

“I shall have my secretary round up two witnesses and a notary. It shall be done at once.”

And, within fifteen minutes, Stan signed the few but absolute lines of the contract. He sweated while he did it, but he did it all the same. It went against his every instinct, but he did it all the same. Immediately after, a bailiff and mid-level functionary both witnessed it, and the notary made it official. Thus, it was done.

Stan practically crawled out the door. No one ever said doing the right thing is easy. Most often, in fact, the right thing is the hardest of all possible things to do. But that just makes it all the nobler.

“Shall I draft an invoice for Mister Pines?” the secretary inquired.

The lawyer sighed. “No. He’s now paying about twenty thousand a year for that document.”

“Yes. But not to us.”

“Fair point, I suppose . . . But I don’t intend to make him pay twice for doing the right thing.”

“Sometimes, you are a very good man, Mister Arnque. And a terrible lawyer.”

“Everyone has their off days.”

****

Dipper was a pen-clicker. Click. Click. Clickity. “No disappearances . . .”

Norman was a pacer. Step. Step. Stop. “No disappearances at all? In _nearly two hundred years_?”

“None that have been reported, at least . . .” Clickity-click. Click-click. Clickity.

Step. Turn. Step. Step. Stop. “Is it possible that the records aren’t available online?”

“Hmm . . .” Click-click-click. Click. “You think we should go check at the police station?”

{Would they even let you? I’m sorry to have to tell you, Bugaboo, but you _are_ just kids.}

“We could say it was for a school report,” Norman suggested.

{Which class would realistically assign thirteen-year-olds to comb through old police records?}

Norman sighed. “Fair point . . .”

“What is?”

“No class would assign us to look through old police records. ‘Cause we’re kids.”

“Age bigots.” Clickity-click-click. Click. Dipper put the pen down and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Fricative . . . This investigation is going nowhere . . .”

“M-maybe we should call it a day?” Norman suggested. “Try and tackle this again tomorrow?”

“Yeah . . . Wanna go watch some Ducktective?”

“What-tective?”

“You’re kidding me!” Dipper exclaimed. “You’ve _never_ seen Ducktective?! It’s the greatest show on TV! There’s this duck who’s a freelance detective for Scotland Yard with the help of liaison officer Robert Bobby, and a swan medical officer in the morgue, and the Aflac Duck did a cameo once! The dialogue is brilliant, the acting is brilliant, the story is just plain brilliant.”

{Billiant!} And Detoby honked his horn. Not unlike a goose.

“I’m picking up that you like it,” Norman said in a deadpan tone of voice.

“Man, you don’t even know. C’mon, let’s go watch it.”

In the living room, they found a drained-looking Stan already ensconced in his favorite chair. Numbly, he sipped at a Diet Pitt and watched the tail-end of Tiger-Fist. Soos was also present, saying, “Which means we had five people today. Tours and souvenirs all. Not bad, right?”

Stan grunted, “Good job, I guess . . .”

Dipper blinked. A compliment? From Stan? To Soos? “You okay, Gruncle Stan?”

“Yeah . . . Hey, c’mere, Dipping Sauce.”

Detoby snorted. {Dipping Sauce? This man is a genius. Don’t you agree, Paintbrush?}

The behatted boy stepped closer. “What’s up—ughk!” And was pulled into a one-armed grasp. “W-what’s with the chokehold?!”

“It’s not a chokehold, genius. It’s just a hug.” And then Stan gave his great-nephew a playful little shove away, knocking on the bill of his cap as he did.

“A hug? Why?” Dipper demanded suspiciously. “Am I . . . am I _dying_?”

“What? No.”

“Are _you_ dying?”

“No! Yeesh! Can’t a gruncle hug his grephew without getting the third degree?”

“So . . . No one’s dying?” Dipper asked, still disbelieving.

“No! Well . . . Okay, there are probably thousands of people dying this very second, but neither you nor I nor anyone we know is one of them. Happy now?”

{I should hope not. That was a rather depressing declaration to make,} the Jokergeist quipped.

Norman snorted.

Stan continued gruffly, “So you gonna stand there and be morbid all day, or you gonna sit down and watch Ducktective?”

“You know it.”

A minute later, Mabel and the girls arrived in the living room. Or, more accurately, at the living room, for Mabel refused to cross the threshold once she saw Norman and Dipper. “Hmph! Guess we’ll need to go somewhere else to watch Ducktective. It’s not enough that the boys gotta hog the computer all day; now they’re hogging the TV.”

“You like hogs,” Dipper retorted impatiently.

“I like _pigs_,” she countered emphatically. “Pigs aren’t rude. And fakey.”

“We didn’t even want the computer,” Grenda pointed out in an undertone.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Where else will we watch it?” Candy asked. “What will we do with all this popcorn?”

Stan sighed. “Boys to one side. Girls to the other. Is that a satisfactory solution?”

Norman settled himself atop the dinosaur skull sidetable. “We call this side. Since it’s the closest I’ll probably ever come to riding a dinosaur . . .” he added tragically. For, really, that was a tragedy.

“Fine,” Mabel snapped. “But fakey and his friend don’t get any popcorn.”

“I can live with that,” Stan decided, snagging himself a handful. “By the way, c’mere for a sec.” And he also pulled his great-niece into a hug.

In spite of herself, she reflexively shot a questioning look at Dipper, but looked away with a “Hmph!” when he shrugged at her. She hadn’t meant to acknowledge his existence; it just happened. “What’s with the hug, Gruncle Stan? Am I . . . am I _dying_?”

“No! No one is dying! Yeesh, when did you kids get so morbid?”

“Mabel _is_ a goth now,” Candy pointed out reasonably. “Morbidity is part of the territory. Ooo! The theme song is starting!”

Half-way through the show (after one red herring, and the first major plot twist) Dipper leaned towards Norman and whispered, “Something really obvious just occurred to me.”

“Hmm?”

“We don’t need a class project to look at police records. We could just ask to see them.”

“W-would they let us, you think?”

“Can’t see any reason why not. And even if not, I’ve got a key that opens any lock in America. Probably by presidential magic—I’m not sure. So we don’t actually need permission.”

“We could get in trouble doing that.

“So? We’re loose canard ducks on the edge, and answer to no one!”

Detoby started guffawing. Norman raised an eyebrow. “Loose what-nows?”

“Canard. That’s Ducktective’s name—Drake Canard. Which means duck, but sounds like cannon. Loose cannon. That was funny!” Dipper insisted.

“Yeah. Sure it was.”

“You would’ve laughed if you were smarter.”

“Or maybe I would’ve laughed if you were funnier.”

“I am funny. I’m funny as fricative.”

“Ditch, please,” Norman retorted smugly.

Dipper snorted. “Ditch? Yeah, that’s not bad.”

“Nope. It isn’t. But it sounds like it should be . . . So you think tomorrow after sch—”

Mabel burst out, “Will you two shut up?! Some of us are trying to ignore your existence and listen to clever writing!”

Both boys fell silent until the show ended, though it was Stan who broke the silence first. “Prob’ly time to take you non-Pines kids home, right? The weather still looks creepy though. Give me a minute to put some respectable clothes on, and I’ll drop you all off at home.”

“They’re not paying!” Mabel declared at once. “Or at least, Candy and Grenda aren’t!”

“Well, Norman isn’t paying, either.”

“Hmph!”

“Mabel—”

“Hmph!”

But Stan came back in more than just a pair of pants; he came back wearing a full, clean suit—something so astounding that Dipper and Mabel forgot their squabble.

“You’re wearing actual clothes . . .” Dipper said disbelievingly.

“And it’s after seven . . .” Mabel intoned.

“I have something I need to do on the way back,” their great-uncle answered evasively. “Which is why Soos is still here. I might be late.”

“Gruncle Stan, we don’t need a babysitter.”

“If Soos stays, it’s only because he’s cool and we like him,” Mabel huffed.

“Awwww! Thanks, Hambone. Fistbump.”

Mabel obliged him over her shoulder.

Adjusting his cravat in the mirror, Stan asked, “Isn’t that functionally the same thing?”

“We just want it on the record that Soos is hanging out. Not babysitting,” Dipper exiged.

“Record? Is somebody taking this down? But fine,” Stan allowed judiciously. “Officially, Soos is here ‘cause he’s scared of the fog, and you two are babysitting him. Whatever. Let’s go, non-Pines kids.”

“See you tomorrow, gal pals!” Mabel called.

Dipper nodded. Bro-casual. “Norm.”

Norman nodded back. Not quite as casual. “D-Dip.”

And, once they were alone, Soos offered, “Who wants nachos?”

“Hey, man, are you actually scared of the fog?”

“What? N-no!” Soos protested in a would-be jocund tone of voice. “It’s not like it makes everything look like this creepy movie I saw as a kid . . . Or like just about every horror movie ever . . . But enough of this topic which no one enjoys. The time has come to talk of other things. Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax. And nachos. Everyone loves nachos.”

****

When the knock at her door came, Esmerelsa sashayed to open it. But, teasingly, she did not allow Stan to enter right away; she blocked his passage and pouted, “There you are, mi eStanford . . . You made me wait esuch a long time. I was estarting to think you had forgotten about me.”

“You look incredible,” he replied, nearly breathless.

“Oh, you like?” she flirted, looking down at her dress. While it was still gray in hue, this was infinitely less nondescript than her other clothing; it was a silvery evening dress—not a gown, perhaps, but it leaned in the direction of formal, and flattered her still curvy figure in all the right ways. “I decided to do a little eshopping after I finished cleaning, and this was . . . not ugly.”

“On you, nothing could be ugly.”

“eStop!” she batted him playfully. “You don’t look eso bad either. But maybe a little tired?”

“Long day, yeah . . . Had something to take care of that was . . . exhausting,” he said vaguely. “Um. I had a reservation for us at The Club, but in all honesty . . . I should probably, uh . . .”

“It is too espensive for you with los chicos to think of?” Esmerelsa asked sympathetically.

“Well, I was looking for a less emasculating way to put it,” he murmured. “But, yes . . .”

“No problemo. I will pay for dinner.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist, mi eStandord.”

“You’re on the run. How can you—”

“I estole a _lot_ of money before running. It is no problemo.”

Stan considered that. He seemed on the verge of capitulating. “When you put it that way . . .”

“I have at least one thousand US dollars in my purse right now,” she whispered in his ear.

“Whoa . . . That is the sexiest thing a woman has ever said to me.”

“I know you well. Come; we take my car. It is espotless.”

And off she sashayed through the fog. A woman in silvery gray walking through a silvery mist . . .

For a moment, Stan just watched her. Drank in the sight and the sound of her. The reality of her. It was hard to believe she wasn’t a dream, for he had dreamed of her so long.

Yet he was filled with dread that she was a dream. Even now, she seemed to move without any actual physical connection to the ground. Seemed to float through the silvery mist in a silvery gray dress. Perhaps she was just as ephemeral, too—would disappear again when the morning sun of reality burned through the fog of dreams (as it does, being a jerk) . . . And leave him only reawoken memories and reopened scars . . .

“Mi eStanford? You look like you have eseen—how do you esay un fantasma?”

He swallowed. “Are you . . . Are you sure we’re not making a mistake? I can’t shake this feeling that this can’t last. I want it to last. More than anything. But . . . Nothing this good seems to ever last.”

She looked at him with a fierce determination—the determination of a South American woman. “I am not going anywhere this time, mi eStanford.”

“See, you say that now, and I believe you. But you said that before, and I believed you then . . . Aren’t you afraid that something will happen like before to separate us? That we’ll get closer and closer, and then be ripped apart again? Regret that we let ourselves love again, because it’ll make us hurt again just as much as before . . . And maybe more . . .” he finished somberly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that part of me is certain that you should get back in your car and keep driving before we lose our hearts again, or we’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon . . . Probably by Saturday—Sunday, at the latest.”

She looked away. After a moment, she stated, “And the rest of you?”

He smiled distantly. “Would regret not holding onto you for as long as possible, even so.”

“You are a esentimentalist, mi eStanford. eSo am I. You have my heart. You have always had it and will always have it . . . even if el Destino eseparates us again,” she pledged. “I think I would regret not loving you now more than having to leave you again later. Do you not agree?”

Stan met her eyes. “Yeah, I do. Maybe you should do the thinking for both of us from now on.”

“Si. And now, I think you eshould come get into my car, come esit and eat at the table I will pay, and then come with me back here after. I think you eshould do these things, mi eStanford.”

“I think I should listen to you. But also that I should add one thing to the list first.”

He moved around the car, took her face in his hands, and kissed her long and passionately.

“And now, you’ll do the thinking for both of us.”

“Well, I think you eshould kiss me again.”

“Okeydokey.”

****

Norman rolled over and just stared at nothing. Still unable to fall asleep.

Insomnia had struck again.

The glowing numbers of the clock changed to 10:49. Norman stared at them for a second.

Then he reached over and unplugged the clock from the wall. The numbers vanished.

“Heh . . .” Stretching out, he lay back and (eventually) fell asleep.

****

“There’s nothing outside . . . There’s nothing outside . . . There’s nothing outside . . .”

A buzz ran through the electrical wires. And then everything in the house went dark.

Minion #1 whimpered.

It was outside! She just knew it!

But no . . . That was crazy talk . . . She just had to make herself look out the window again, and then she’d see that—like before—there was nothing outside . . .

“There’s nothing outside . . .” she said, but her voice was a squeak.

“There’s nothing outside . . .” she rose and crept across the room.

“There’s nothing outside . . .” she reached for the blinds. Inched them apart.

“There’s noth—eee!” she gasped.

It was outside! And it turned its faceless head to look eyelessly at her window! No face! No eyes but looking straight at her!

**LONELINESS**

She bolted away from the window, tripping over piles of clothes and shoes and her own terror! Jerking the door open, she stumbled blindly towards the stairs!

“Hey! Help!” she called out hoarsely to the babysitter. Barely a whisper—completely a scream.

But there was no answer.

“Help me!”

The first floor was a jigsaw of jagged shadows and filtered light! But the one piece she needed—the babysitter—was nowhere to be found!

“W-why?!” Minion #1 sobbed. “Why d-did they leave me all alone?!”

**KNOW IT**

Her gaze shot towards the ceiling. Was it on the roof?!

Her phone! Maybe she could call for . . .

The call wouldn’t go through.

A text! Maybe . . . What else could she do?

< help! tal mn nafc! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >

And send!

Still sending . . . Still sending . . .

Unable to send. Message saved to drafts.

A strangled whimper. “N-no!”

**COMING**

The phone fell from her hands with a strangled scream! She could hear it upstairs!

Scrabbling against bolts and knobs, she ripped open the front door and fled into the fog!

“Help me! Somebody! Please, help me! It’s coming to get me! It’s coming to get meEEEEEE!”

One or two people looked out their windows when they heard a girl screaming. They would later claim they saw a flash of light—maybe like those annoying new headlights on some cars?—or something like it. The police were called at once, but only those who called via landlines actually reached them.

Two minutes later (and three minutes before the police arrived), the babysitter returned with the toothbrush she had forgotten at home. She found the front door open. She flew into a panic then, and began tearing the place apart. But her charge was already gone.

“How?! How could this happen?! Ten minutes—I was only gone for ten minutes!”

But in that time, something had taken Minion #1 and disappeared. Without a trace.


	12. Chapter 12

Late—Norman knew he was late for something. That was what the clock on the wall said. Its hands pointed straight at late o’clock. He had to run to meet Dipper.

But where?

He went to the Mystery Shack first. Asked, “Where’s Dipper?”

But the girl in goth clothes only went “Hmph!”

“I’m trying to find him.”

“Hmph!”

“I’ll leave you alone once you tell me where he is.”

“Hmph!”

{She’s a little black cloud of gloom, isn’t she?} Detoby joked. {Dispel that black cloud, though, and she might feed you some cake.}

“I don’t want cake. I want Dipper.”

Honking.

Turning back to the girl in goth clothes. “I’m not a fake. And I’m sorry your parents are gone.”

She started crying. She ran away from the Shack. Into the fog outside.

“I’m s-sorry . . .”

{She’s not normally like that,} Detoby said. {I wonder why she is now?}

“You don’t think Dipper’s out in the fog, too?” Worried.

{No. It was clear when we came in. Didn’t happen until after she left. Maybe we should—}

“Wait. Shh . . . I hear a pen clicking.”

They followed it to the living room. On the TV, Dipper was talking with Ducktective. Except Dipper was wearing a plaid shirt that wasn’t buttoned. And had chest hair. Lots of it.

“So the needle and the thread were the murder weapons? That does explain the cross-stitch on the victim’s face.”

“Quack-waaack!”

“You think I’m the murderer?! Just because I made this shirt myself like a real man instead of buying one like a woman, or a womanly man?!”

Norman stepped through the TV. “But he was with me the whole time!”

“Quack.”

“Um . . . What?” Norman asked.

Dipper said, “Just read the subtitles. He said that establishes my alibi.”

“Oh. Well, good. You sewed that shirt yourself?”

“Out of kilts—manliest clothing in the world! And while I was at it, I grew this chest hair.”

Norman stared. There was a lot of it. And it was mesmerizing.

“Because making things instead of buying things is as manly as it gets.”

Mesmerizing.

“You want to touch my chest hair to see how manly I am?”

Norman blushed. “I . . . do what to touch your chest hair . . .” He reached out.

“Quackquackquack!”

Dipper dashed off. “No time for romance! We have to look at police records for Ducktective!”

Annoyed. Stupid duck. “Why does he need us to do it? And I’m pretty sure we can make time!”

“He says you know more than you’re telling us. And it can’t wait.”

“But I don’t!”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t know what it is you know yet.”

Ducktective had a wall of known victims. The older goth. The rich blonde. A question mark.

“Waack-quack.”

“He says there’s probably another one already. All the disappearances happen at night.”

“Waaaack?”

Dipper pointed. “There has to be a connection that ties these two together . . .”

Norman wasn’t looking at the victims; he was looking at Dipper’s chest. “No idea what it is.”

On a blackboard, someone had written three points: quack, waack-wack, and waquack.

“This is what we think we know about what’s taken the victims.”

“Great. I can’t read it. So . . . can I . . . touch your chest hair now?” It was so mesmerizing.

“You have to tell us what it is first. None of us know. Read the subtitles.”

Norman focused. He had to do it now; touching Dipper’s chest was on the line.

The first point resolved into the words “creaking”.

“What does that mean?” Dipper asked. “What creaks?”

The second point resolved into the word “chilly fog”.

Nodding from Dipper. “Fog . . . Everyone disappeared into the chilly fog . . .”

Something clicked in Norman’s mind. “They all disappeared _in_ the fog! Gotta remember that! We looked for fog, we looked for disappearances, but not both together!”

{But there’s never been a fog like this in Gravity Falls.} Detoby said through the TV screen.

Speculative. “What about outside Gravity Falls? Why would it just have to be here?”

And the third point resolved into a sketch of a hand. White on black. Like chalk on a chalkboard.

Dipper listed. “Creaking . . . Chilly fog . . . Hand . . . That’s something to go on.”

{Fantastic!} Detoby cheered.

Déjà vu for Norman. But why?

“Creaking . . . Chilly fog . . . Hand . . .”

Norman stared closer at the hand. “I’ve seen this before . . .”

Dipper stood beside him. “Remember, Normy? Normy, you need breakfast.”

The hand reached for him. Grabbed his shoulder. Pulled him out of the TV. Away from Dipper.

“No! I didn’t get to touch it yet!”

“Normy?” Sandra said to her son. “Normy, your alarm clock didn’t go off. Did you not remember to set it last night?”

Blinking up at his mother, Norman mumbled (perhaps accusingly), “Dint getta tush it . . .”

“You slept late, Sweetie. Need to hurry if you’re going to eat before school.”

****

It should not need to be established that guys generally have everything easier in life than girls; however, in the event that such is not readily apparent, it is now being stated as fact. Guys generally have everything easier in life than girls.

Take the morning routine, for instance.

Dipper’s entailed splashing his face with cold water, brushing his teeth, and getting dressed—the same shirt as yesterday, the same shorts as yesterday, the same socks and underwear as yesterday (because why not, if none of them looked particularly dirty?), and his favorite vest and hat. Did he worry about his hair? Nope. That’s what the hat was for. Duh.

Mabel’s, on the other hand, began with a shower and a thorough face scrubbing. Then, while a towel soaked up most of the water in her thick and wavy hair, she brushed her teeth. Next was styling—a process that was equal parts careful brushing, teasing, blowdrying, and sculpting. Styling alone could take up to half-an-hour (hair doesn’t cascade riotously behind a person all by itself). After this, an outfit had to be formulated from all available clothing in the wardrobe, none of which could be worn two days in a row on pain of social death. Normally, at least. The goth outfit was an exception, representing perhaps a social undeath to which none of the normal rules applied (the fact that Dipper surreptitiously laundered it on a nightly basis no doubt facilitated this rule immunity—and the ludicrous cumulative mass of its hundreds of beads had already increased the amount of weight he could dead lift by 8%). Finally, makeup had to be applied in accordance with the outfit’s color scheme.

So Dipper could be “ready” in about five minutes. But to get “ready”, Mabel usually needed an hour-and-a-half—which is considered fast among her kind. Her recent foray into gothness had had little effect on the overall time of her morning routine; some minutes were saved by knowing what the outfit would be in advance, but additional layers of makeup required additional minutes to apply.

Wednesday morning, after another night of mercifully dreamless sleep, Mabel was just finishing the styling of her hair when she looked down upon her dark regalia. “It sure is . . . dark . . .” she mused to herself. “Sparkly and uber-fashionable . . . but dark . . .”

Holding the sweater against her chest, she eyed herself carefully in the mirror. The goth look . . . felt wrong today. Not her . . . Because she was actually . . . not feeling all that dark this morning . . .

“Needs more color,” Mabel decided.

But the question now was: which one of her literally dozens of sweaters should she choose? There were so many (each more splendiferously colorful than the last) that choosing could take hours.

“Maybe . . . This one!” she decided, drawing another from her closet. “Yes! My favorite!”

Against a pink background (primrose, to be exact), a golden shooting star with a rainbow tail arched across her chest. She grinned—actually grinned—at her reflection, because it was perfect.

“Feels like I haven’t worn this in forever . . . Not since before Mom and Dad—”

Her breath caught in her chest. The sweater slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor. All she could do was stare at it.

“Not since _the_ _day_ Mom and Dad . . . Oh!” Mabel sobbed.

Somehow, she found the corner of her bed and sat. The tears flowed afresh, sudden and swift. But they were different now—different than the tears before. Those had been wrenching and painful. The uncontrollable and inconsolable cries of a soul being torn apart by grief. The tortured sounds of despair. A flash flood of tears. These were embracing and tender. The forlorn and mournful expression of a heart that feels once more what it has lost. The almost-musical sounds of sorrow. A rainfall of tears.

They did not last long. Just long enough for Dipper to come looking for her. “Hey, Mabel? Gruncle Stan says we need . . . Are you alright?” he asked around the door.

Pulling her robe closer around her, his sister shook her head.

“Can I come in?”

And when Mabel nodded, her brother went and put an arm around her.

“It’s okay . . . It’s okay . . .”

“I was j-just . . . reminded of M-Mom and Dad . . . and then I . . . I . . .”

“Yeah, I can see. It’s okay . . . Hey, y’know what would make you feel better? An investigation!” he offered enthusiastically. “Just like we always do! There’ve been these weird disappearances . . . and there’s this weird (possibly demonic) fog . . . It’ll be fun and exciting and mysterious, and we’ll be heroes when we solve the case and bring everybody home! It’ll be fun. Wanna help me?”

She sniffed back her tears and laughed at his overly-gungho proposition. It was just so Dipper. “That d-does sound like it might be f-fun . . .”

“And it’ll keep us busy, too. I mean, there’s always a lot of work to an investigation (Norman hasn’t quite realized that out yet) but that’s not a bad thing for us right n—”

“You’re doing it with Fakey?” Mabel demanded.

Dipper bit his lip. Then he said, simply, “Yeah. He brings a lot to the team, being able to talk—”

“No,” she stated flatly. Stubbornly. “I will not work with that liar. Ever.”

With a sigh, her brother relented. True, he wanted to insist that she was wrong about Norman, but he knew how well that would go now. Instead, he confided to her, “I need your help on this, Mabel. We’re not sure what we’re looking for, and . . . Well, I’m smart. Smart, clever, incisive. I notice things. But you notice things I would never even think of. I need you on this case. Please? Mystery K—Twins?”

Swiping at her eyes, she avoided his plea by asking, “You said . . . people have disappeared?”

“Three, yeah. Pacifica was one of them.”

“Wow . . .” Taken aback, Mabel shook her head. “I forgot about hearing about that . . . Funny how you dream for years of something terrible happening to a scuzbag, and then when it happens . . . It’s like . . . You feel all ‘not even they, scuzbag as they are, deserve that’, y’know?”

“Which is why I need your help. To put a stop to it and save the scuzbags.”

She swallowed. “Okay. But not as long as Fakey McLiarhair is working with us. Probably in on it,” she muttered sourly.

Her brother groaned. But before he could reply, Stan yelled, “KIDS! WE GOTTA GO! SOME OF US GOT PLACES TO GO AND PEOPLE TO SEE! Um . . . By which I mean, you! Because of school!”

“I need to get dressed,” Mabel declared. “When you’re willing to dump the fake psychic, I’m all on board to help. But not until then.”

And, after Dipper departed with another groan of exasperation, she picked up the goth sweater. When she looked in the mirror . . . it felt less wrong than before.

“Still need it, I guess . . .”

****

When the office phone rang, the man answered it with a bright but professional tone of voice. “Competent Accountants! This is—”

A frantic woman’s voice. “Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour!”

“Pudding Pop? What’s the matter?” he asked his wife. “Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“I did! Like twenty times, but the call wouldn’t go through!”

“Yeah, service’s been really sporadic these past couple days,” he said with the irritation of an inconvenienced professional. “Must have something to do with this bizarre weather. So what’s wrong, Pudding Pop? Is your mom okay?”

A ragged sigh. “N-no, not really . . . She’s so w-weak and . . . and . . . Like she’s dying. I need you. I just . . . I just can’t handle this on my own . . . Please . . . I need you now . . .”

“Alright,” he said gently. “I can do my work there just as easily as here. But you know it’ll take some time to get to Boise, right?”

“Please? Just knowing that you’re c-coming . . . Please.”

Speaking about their daughter, he asked, “What about her? She can’t miss school.”

“No? W-well . . . can’t she stay with her friend’s family? When they took that couple’s retreat, we took care of her for them. I h-hate to ask, but . . .”

“Okay,” he said decisively. “I’ll get it arranged and be on my way as soon as possible.”

“Please hurry. Please.”

“Not to worry, Pudding Pop. Just try to relax ‘til I’m there, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah. Okay . . . I love you.”

“I love you, too. See you in a few hours.”

The next thirty minutes were fairly mundane. The man transferred several files to a flash drive, returned home to pack enough clothes for a few days out of town, scrawled a quick note explaining the situation to his daughter, and made three attempts to call her friend’s family to arrange matters. Predictably, the call would not go through. Thinking he would call them to confirm after reaching Boise, he composed a text from the driver’s seat of his car and clicked the send button as he turned the key.

He was in a hurry; his wife needed him, after all—which is probably the reason why it never occurred to him to double-check the delivery of the text message. Understandable. Hardly blamable. And yet, if he had double-checked it, he would have seen that the text message failed to deliver.

And behind him, in his empty home, the force of the door closing had been enough to rattle the pencil which he had used to scrawl the note to his daughter. It rolled off the edge of the table, dragging the note over with it. The note glided briefly on its way down, to land almost entirely under the couch.

Likely a coincidence. Certainly mundane.

Not at all sinister.

****

Smiling dreamily, Esmerelsa speared the last piece of her breakfast with her fork and held it out to Stan. “Abra,” she whispered across the table. “Open.”

Smiling back dreamily, he let her feed it to him. It was heavenly. It was pure blintz.

“They are not bad here,” she commented.

“Might even be better than Bogota.”

“Different than Bogota . . . But just as good.”

For a moment they both just looked at each other. Savored the moment and the taste of blintz.

“A peso for your thoughts?” she asked.

“In America, they . . . are worth a dollar,” he countered. Old habits die hard for old shysters.

“Acuerdo. It is—how do you esay?—a deal.”

But Stan said nothing.

“eStanford?”

“I’m waiting for that dollar.”

She laughed.

He still said nothing.

She drew a dollar from her purse and handed it to him. “I espect good thoughts for my money.”

“I was just thinking I was loco to try and make you leave last night.”

Agreeing with a nod, she said, “Si. Más loco . . . Almost as much as after.”

He grinned. And then he slid the dollar back over to her. It was meant to be a suave gesture inviting her to share her thoughts, but was actually rather spasmodic; he didn’t want to let the dollar go. Not because he was uninterested in her thoughts—quite the contrary—but because he was pretty sure she’d eventually tell him them for free. Giving the dollar back was, therefore, just bad business.

But love makes a man do crazy things.

Accepting it playfully, she put it back in her purse (a small part of Stan whimpered and died). Then she took his hand and said, “I have been thinking esince escrubbing the walls yesterday—”

“But I scrubbed your walls,” he interjected.

“Si. And then I escrubbed them again.”

“Did I not do it right?”

“Of course you did. And then I escrubbed them a esecond time,” she stated slowly, as if this was something obvious. “Do you not escrub your walls twice to be esafe?”

“Um . . .” Come to think of it, Stan wasn’t sure he had ever scrubbed his walls. “Yes?”

“eSo I was just thinking,” Esmerelsa continued, “that I would like to esee your Mystery eShack.”

Stan’s grin became a rictus. “What a . . . idea that is!” he forced himself to say.

“Is esomething wrong, mi eStanford?”

“I’m just not sure . . . it’d interest you. Has a lot to do with American paranormal stuff and . . . stuff . . .” he said lamely.

“Oh?”

“Yeah . . . Bigfoot. Aliens. Jackalopes. Taxidermied stuff,” he added emphatically. “You know how you are around stuff like that.”

Lightheartedly, she chuckled, “Oh, if I know to espect it, it will not esurprise me!”

“You’re sure? Remember last time? The whole reason we had to start a dance fiesta to escape the police was because—”

“Si si si,” she said with a dismissive wave. “They come to find out why esomeone was eshooting in the apartment.”

“And that person was?”

She rolled her eyes and admitted, “Me.”

“And why were you shooting in the apartment?”

“Because there was El Chupacabra on la mesa!” she burst out in exasperation. “If you don’t esay to me you are going to make El Chupacabra while I am out, how do I know El Chupacabra is going to be on la mesa—the table?! On the table. When I get back? How, eStanford?”

“You kept trying to shoot if for like a minute after all the bullets were gone.”

“It was _El_ _Chupacabra_ in the apartment!”

“It was going to be a sideshow attraction for money. And then we had to escape to a different neighborhood with fruit hats on.”

“I promise I will not eshoot anything in your Mystery eShack,” she said with a small pout.

“Well . . .” He shifted uncomfortably.

“What?”

“Er . . . Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that the place is a pigsty. Except for the presence of an actual pig. But it . . . uh, might not meet your usual standard of cleanliness.”

The pout doubled. “I am estarting to think you don’t want to take me home. You want to keep me in my Hotel Lodge, because you are ashamed of me. Hmph.”

Tugging at his collar, Stan relented, “How about a deal? You give me today to clean the place, and you can come see it tomorrow. We’ll do whatever you like tomorrow. All day. Except for when I gotta get the gremlins.”

“Today? You need that much time to clean it?”

“It’s big,” he answered defensively. “Besides, you were complaining about how your rear wall is askew by a degree.”

“eShocking, really. How can people esleep in esuch a room?”

“So you should take the day to renovate it. That’ll keep you busy and happy while I clean.”

Pursing her lips, she conceded, “I do like to make things estraight . . .”

“Akerdo?” Stan asked teasingly.

Esmerelsa nodded (despite his unforgivable mispronunciation). “Si. It is a deal. But now we have a paradox, mi eStanford.”

“We do?”

“If you go esooner, you will be done esooner. Then you can come esee me esooner later. But if you estay longer now, I esee you longer now. A paradox, no?”

He leaned across the table and kissed her. “I’ll clean fast.”

And then he was gone like a shot, headed home in a panic.

“A _day_?! A _single_ day?! Only _one_ to get it ready for her?!” Stan roared at the universe. “I mean, the Shack looks good enough for the tourists—they like a few cobwebs and dust here and there for mystique—but for her?! GAH! What’ve I got myself into?! Might as well _torch_ _it_ and build a new one! It’d prob’ly _save_ _time_!”

In a whirlwind, he flew through the door to be greeted by Soos. “Morning, Mister Pines.”

“Soos, drop whatever you’re doing!”

“Um . . .” Soos looked down at his breakfast burrito. But he wasn’t an idiot; he covered it up again in its wrapping before dropping it.

“We gotta get this place spotless! I want you mopping all the floors until they shine!”

“Yessir, Mister Pines.”

“Where do we keep the wall-scrubbing chemicals?!”

“Er . . . Is that a thing?”

“And get the windows open! We need some fresh air to clear out all the dust!”

“But what about the fog?” Soos asked.

“That just means the fresh air is more concentrated! Now mop! Mop like the wind!”

And Stan was gone like a shot, headed towards the kitchen in a panic.

Soos looked down at his burrito. Then he picked it up and continued eating. “Gotta clean this up first, right? Besides, can’t mop on an empty stomach.”

****

“I know this must be hard for you . . .” The art teacher bent sympathetically over a forlorn Minion #2. Bereft of ringleader, and now a second without a first, she seemed like the loneliest girl alive. “But I’m sure they’ll find your friends,” the art teacher continued.

The girl looked away. “Not my friends. Don’t have any. So who cares about them?”

“Listen. You have a gift for art,” the teacher said quietly. “So I want you to do today’s project. This will help you feel better . . . About everything, okay? I promise.”

Not being given much of a choice, Minion #2 took her regular spot near the door (which let her face the windows that ran along the far wall of the classroom) and set up her easel. The fog outside diffused the sunlight into an ambient gray glow—not the usual bright flare of a background, which gave her subjects inward-reaching shadows, as she usually preferred in her paintings. No, the vase of flowers they were to paint seemed . . . wan, even artificial.

Just like her efforts, she realized. “Okay . . . I guess I can paint . . . in _artificial_ . . .”

Thus she soon entered a kind of fugue state, almost losing consciousness to the act of painting. Artistic instinct took over. Her eye and her hand were connected unconsciously. Perhaps subconsciously. Her arms and hands moved, and drab color gradually filled the canvas throughout the class.

Near the end of the period, the teacher made a final round to see what everyone had produced. Minion #2’s, because of her spot near the door, was the last to be examined. “Oh my . . . This is . . . incredible . . .” the teacher gasped.

An approving pat on the shoulder made the girl startle, as if out of a trance. “Huh?”

“What you’ve done with the colors—so lackluster . . . And almost no texture, giving the work an unfeeling flatness . . . You’ve managed to express ennui in a really subtle way . . . Impressive technique.”

“On we?”

With a vague motion of the hands, the art teacher explained, “It’s like depression. Angst. Emotional unease . . . The things you’re feeling because you’re worried for your friends.”

The girl looked away discontentedly. “They weren’t ever my friends. No one ever has been.”

“I do have one question, though. This was supposed to be a still-life, so who’s this . . . figure?” the art teacher asked, pointing to the lower corner of the painting. “In the suit?”

In a murmur, the girl repeated, “Figure?”

She looked to the corner, to a background that included the windows and the gray haze visible through them. And there it was, standing in the haze: a figure like a man that was disturbingly thin, in a nondescript suit of black, with a featureless face—a blank face. Perhaps blurred by the window?

It was strangely . . . unnerving. “I don’t remember painting that.”

The art teacher snorted. “Who else could have done it?”

“But . . . I . . .”

“It’s an interesting touch, certainly. Even if it wasn’t part of the assignment . . . So much one could read from this figure . . .” the art teacher mused. “Well, you had best take it to the drying gallery.”

Looking at it again, Minion #2 shook her head tremblingly. “N-no . . . I’m n-_not_ touching it . . .”

“Don’t be silly. Here.” And the art teacher handed it to her.

“N-no. NO!” And the girl knocked it away.

The painting landed facedown and smeared across the cheap tile of the art room.

Surprised and a little scandalized, the art teacher stammered, “W-what’s gotten into you?”

The girl cowered away from the painting. “I d-don’t wanna see it again . . . Never . . . Never!”

“Are you feeling alright? You look so pale all of a sud—”

“LEAVE ME ALONE! You don’t know me! You don’t care about me!” the girl screeched. She was already scrabbling out into the hallway. “Don’t talk like you do!”

Letting her go with a sigh, the art teacher turned to the rest of the class. “She gets a little leniency today because of . . . recent events. Please put your things away.”

Everyone complied silently.

Retrieving the ruined work from off the floor, the art teacher lamented, “So much expression . . . Gone forever . . . Nothing but splotches where once there was a still-life . . . and that strange figure . . . What was it meant to represent, I wonder? Isolation? Anonymity? Impending misfortune?”

Naturally, it would never occur to the art teacher that the figure was anything other than an artistic representation of something emotional. Such an idea would have been deemed ludicrous, because of course the girl could not have seen something like this; it was all out of proportion—impossibly thin and impossibly long. Besides, the figure was depicted as being right outside the window, but the classroom was on the second floor.

****

It took all morning, but the walls of the Mystery Shack—be they stone, wood, or papered—were gradually scrubbed clean. It was amazing how much grime could accumulate on them over the years, but also how much they could shine. Now, while Soos polished (and groomed) the displays (a Sascrotch really should be brushed daily for optimal glossiness), Stan dug out the Stan-Vac and prepared to attack the living room.

He switched it on; it whined to life. He set it on the carpet; it whined in pain. He slid it forward a few feet; it deathrattled, and then died.

“What the—work, you dang thing!”

He kicked it. The bag was so full, it was solid.

“What the—”

He looked at the ground. There was a streak of white-ish behind the vacuum cleaner.

“Wait . . . So my carpet isn’t beige? Crap, when did I last vacuum, anyway?”

A part of him was pretty sure it hadn’t been since before the twins were born.

“Crap,” he repeated. The realization probably justified a third “crap”, but he restrained himself.

He did eventually manage to clean the carpet; he just had to empty the bag thirty-two times in the process. Why did he endure this? Because love makes a man do crazy, unpleasant things.

****

When second period ended, the Keeper of the Precepts dragged himself to his locker, deposited everything but a sack lunch and a bottle of water, and then made his way wearily to the main entrance of the school. Only a fourth of the Consortium was present when he arrived.

“Where is everybody?” he asked a fellow goth.

Shrugs were his response.

With a sigh, he drew his cellphone and sent out the text message: < where is everybody? >

But it failed to go through.

In a flash of rage, he nearly dashed the machine against the ground. But he was too exhausted to sustain the anger—too exhausted from nonstop searching during every moment he wasn’t in school. His arm sagged back against his side. “Damnation . . .”

“I don’t think they’re coming . . .” someone spoke up timidly. “I mean, we can’t exactly go far during the lunch break, and . . . Well . . .”

“Yes?” the Keeper of the Precepts demanded icily.

“Well . . . It’s been two days with us searching, and the police, and all those people—”

Bitterly, he interjected, “They are looking for the Northwest girl, not Ebony.”

“Still . . . What I mean is . . . Two days, and all of us haven’t found anything. Even though we’ve looked everywhere in town—”

“Except wherever Ebony is. Logically.”

Firmer now, someone else asserted, “We’re exhausted. You especially, KP. And besides . . . We’re not going to find Ebony. We’re just wasting our time.”

“You don’t know that! And we do not abandon our own!” the Keeper of the Precepts snapped. “We are goths!”

From behind him, the Principal declared, “What you are is children. Students at my school.”

“That does not make us infants,” the Keeper of the Precepts retorted as he spun around.

“No. But it does make you my responsibility. So I’m rescinding my permission for you to search.”

“You can’t stop us!”

“Actually, I can. And, in light of recent developments, I am. For your own safety. I’m sorry, Samuel,” the Principal added gently. “But I can’t allow you to leave school grounds during school hours.”

A goth asked, “What recent developments?”

“Another child disappeared yesterday—a third student from this school.”

“Oh no . . .”

But the Keeper of the Precepts insisted, “All the more reason for us to search! If they’re lost—”

Soberly, the Principal interrupted, “I don’t believe anyone is lost. Three children in three days? No, they didn’t just wander off; I’m afraid there’s a child predator out there.”

Everyone fell silent.

“You think . . . someone really did take Ebony?”

“That is what I think, yes. I don’t have access to all the facts, but that’s what the evidence suggests to me. And, as that seems to be the case, I cannot in good conscience allow any of you to leave school grounds during school hours. Not even to look for Kenny.”

“First of all, her/his name is _Kennedy_, not Kenny,” the Keeper of the Precepts growled. “And second of all, his/her name is actually _Ebony_. If you cannot even care enough to know Ebony’s name, why should I listen to you?”

“Because I’m legally in charge of you.”

“Ha!”

“And so if you go, I will have to call the police to bring you back. Do you really want to distract the professionals from searching for your friend?”

One of the goths murmured, “M-maybe we should listen?”

If looks could kill, the glare which the Keeper of the Precepts fired at this speaker would have been an execution for treachery. Given the goth fascination for Victorian fashions, this means that drawing and quartering was not out of the question.

“The point is, I’m not allowing you a choice in the matter. I have to think of your safety, even if you don’t like it,” the Principal added. “Get something to eat, Samuel. Take a breather. You’ve clearly done everything you could.”

As the Principal strode away, the Keeper of the Precepts sank to the floor. In a murmur that was so quiet he could barely hear it himself, he contradicted, “Not everything . . . If I had done more, somehow, none of this would’ve happened to Ebony . . .”

****

Setting down her tray, Candy hazarded, “So . . . I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”

Mabel signaled her to go on.

But before Candy could, two students threw themselves at Mabel’s feet. “Teach us dark wisdom and gothicness!”

Grenda growled. “Not more of these guys! You want I should wreck ‘em?”

With a sigh, Mabel deterred the larger girl’s wrath. “I got this. You two want dark wisdom? Well, first you must seek answers within yourself before asking others if you have found the true path.”

“Whoa . . . Deep . . .” one of the two students said. The other asked, “But what’s that mean?”

“It means go away so I can eat lunch with my friends. You don’t need me to tell you what to do.”

Both looked at each other. “That doesn’t sound very wise . . .”

“Doesn’t it? Or maybe you just can’t recognize the wisdom yet. Meditate on this. Preferably somewhere else, ‘cause . . . y’know, trying to eat lunch with my friends here. Shoo.”

“Whoa . . . Deep . . . And kinda rude . . .” one of the students said. The other shrugged. “I guess when you’re wise, you don’t necessarily have to be polite.”

Grenda’s patience reached its limit. She pounded the table and roared, “SCRAM! We’re trying to have girl talk!” And, once the students had scurried away, she gestured mildly to Candy. “Continue.”

Candy cleared her throat hesitantly. “Well, it’s just—”

Behind them there was a loud clatter of dishes and cutlery. They turned to see Minion #2, standing with her lunch tray at her feet (but her lunch smeared against her chest), suddenly shove another student away.

“What’s your problem, psycho?!” the other student demanded of her.

“My problem?! Look what you did!”

“Sorry! It was an accident—”

“It was on purpose!”

“I just bumped into you!”

“You did this because you HATE ME! All of you do!”

“No, I—”

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! Why can’t all of you JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?! I hope you all _die_!”

And, kicking the tray angrily, Minion #2 stormed from the lunchroom.

“Wow. What’s with her?” Grenda asked in an undertone.

Candy glanced over. “Don’t you know? About Pacifica and the—”

“Oh . . . Right . . .” Grenda recalled soberly. “Does it make me a . . . bad person that I think they kinda deserved what they got?”

Looking away, Mabel muttered, “You’re not the only one—to be kinda glad, but feel guilty too—if that makes you feel any better . . . Dipstick wants me to investigate it with him . . .”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you about,” Candy said reluctantly.

“Okay,” Mabel acquiesced, though just as reluctantly.

“Wait a moment. I just want to see if anything else is going to interrupt me again.” She waited for a beat, then opened her mouth—

“FREE PIZZA!”

“JONESY IS TAKING THE SPOONFUL OF CINNAMON CHALLENGE!”

“EVERYBODY, DANCE!”

“What’s with everybody today?” Grenda wondered as the cafeteria dissolved into a pizza-eating, cinnamon-snorting, booty-shaking rave.

Mabel shrugged. “Must be the weather. Seems like everybody is acting weird lately.”

“Do you think there will be anymore distractions?” Candy asked.

A kid went streaking by in nothing but his boxers. “LOOKATMELOOKATMELOOKATME!”

“I dunno,” Grenda replied. “Maybe just ask your question and don’t care about distractions?”

“Alright. Mabel . . . why exactly are you being so mean to Dipper lately?”

Even through her makeup, Mabel’s countenance darkened. “I’m not being mean to him.”

“You kinda are,” Candy stated apologetically. “In class. At home. Are you two . . . fighting?”

Mabel struggled to find the words, eventually saying, “It’s not Dipstick . . . It’s Fakey. Y’know, Dipper’s new BFF with the whoosh hair?”

“What’s wrong with him? He seems like a nice guy—”

“He’s a liar!” Mabel snapped. “He . . . He said my parents aren’t there anymore, and . . .”

“But . . .” Grenda stopped herself.

“What? They’re dead?” Mabel rhetoricized bitterly. “I know that . . . But Fakey says he can see ghosts. Just not my parents, because they must’ve ‘moved on’,” she quoted acerbically. “Lucky him, right? Now he’s got an excuse to keep leading Dipper on, and . . . and idiot Dipstick Dipper believes him! Can you believe that? Dipper believes the fakey fake psychic! And he won’t listen when I say his BFF must be a lying fake! No! He’s working with him to investigate things now, so Fakey’s always with him!”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re so sure he’s a fake?”

“Because he said my parents _moved_ _on_!” Mabel burst out, as if that was obvious. “As if . . . as if they’d _ever_ leave me or Dipstick behind . . .”

“You think they’re still there?” Candy asked carefully. “Why?”

“Well . . . where else would they be?” Mabel had meant to say it sarcastically, but it came out differently. Plaintively.

“You have seen them? Heard them? Felt them—”

Quietly, Grenda murmured, “Candy, stop . . .”

Biting her lip, Mabel shook her head. “Don’t you start. I c-_can’t_ deal with this now. What matters is that Fakey is a fake liar, and I’m not speaking to Dipstick until he wises up and sees that. And if _you_ . . . If you wanna take their side, then maybe I can’t deal with _you_ right now.”

“I am not taking their side,” Candy said reassuringly. “Just . . . Dipper cares about you, is all. Maybe you should try to be . . . nicer to him. Maybe work with him? You two are the Mystery Twins. That’s all I wanted to say. He needs you.”

“Can we _not_ talk about this, please?” Mabel asked strainedly.

A moment of awkward silence followed. Or as near silence as was possible in the middle of a pizza- and cinnamon-fueled dance party with random people streaking.

Grenda cleared her throat. “Maybe we should join the pizza-dance-party? You two wanna—”

“Yes!” both said at once.

****

“So . . . you heard the news?” Dipper asked Norman as they proceeded to their usual lunch spot under the bleachers. “There’s been another disappearance. Happened late last night.”

{Again? That’s three in three days!} Detoby exclaimed.

“Who was it?”

“Friend of Pacifica’s (that blonde girl who disappeared late Monday night). The one who had curly hair and darker skin. I heard some teachers talking about it.”

“You think there’s gonna be another one tonight?” Norman asked worriedly.

“Maybe.” Dipper sighed. “We gotta figure this out soon, or more people . . . We j-just gotta figure this out, is all . . . Put a stop to it.”

Soberly, Norman asked, “D-do you get a sense that you’re m-missing something? Like . . . you’ve got all the pieces already somewhere in your head, but you don’t know where they are?”

“Why? Do you?”

“Sorta, yeah . . . I keep dreaming about you case—” The Medium stopped and tried not to blush. “Your case, I mean. About y-your case.”

“C’mon, man. It’s _our_ case,” Dipper said with emphatic joviality. “We’re partners now.”

“R-right. Anyway . . . Every t-time, I have the idea that I know something, but I don’t know what it is I know exactly.”

{How . . . puzzling.} And the Jokergeist honked his horn.

“Hmm . . .” Dipper considered that. He also stopped short at the door and peered suspiciously out into the fog. “How about we sit in here instead of out there? This fog is giving me major creeps.”

{And colonel creeps and captain creeps.}

As they arranged themselves against the wall, Dipper advised, “Try not to think about it. Whatever you think you’re missing will come on its own. No point driving yourself crazy before then.”

“I know. But it’s like you said: we gotta figure this out soon . . .”

{You two ever consider taking a leaf out of my newspaper?}

“What do you mean? Taking a leaf out of your newspaper,” Norman added for Dipper’s benefit.

{I mean why don’t you interview some people? Some live people who were around during the disappearances? They probably saw—}

Palms (plural, not singular) met forehead, and Norman said, “Oh, _duh_! I am so _stupid_!”

“What?” Dipper straightened up. “You figure out what you’re missing?”

“No, but . . . This was even more obvious! Detoby says we should talk to the people involved. People who were around when the kids disappeared.”

“Oh, duh!” Dipper agreed in exasperation. “You’re right! How did I not . . . Gar! I swear, I do a lot of dumb things for a smart person . . . That should’ve been the first thing I thought of! Okay, well, that means we definitely need to go to the Northwests’ and see their Butler today. I remember reading that he was the only one home at the time she disappeared.”

{Butler’s probably the one that did it.}

“You don’t think the Butler did it, do you?” Norman transmitted.

“Nah. Too cliché. He’ll just be a witness. Maybe a red herring, but one that ultimately helps us solve this. You’ll see.”

{Is he . . . Does he think this is gonna be like a PI novel?} Detoby asked in astonishment. {He does know that this isn’t just some two-bit detective-ghost story, right? Real life and death don’t follow rules about . . . plot development and such.}

Norman chose not to transmit that. Instead, he added, “W-we can investigate the crime scene while there! But . . . wait. Will they even let us talk to a witness and look at crime scenes, do you think?”

“Hmm . . . I think I’ve got a plan,” Dipper said slyly. “We’re just gonna need a trenchcoat and a fake moustache from the drama department’s wardrobe closet—though an umbrella and a bowler hat wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

“Um . . . Okay . . .” the Medium said slowly. “B-but . . . won’t that be st-stealing?”

{Only if you don’t bring them back. And even then, that just makes you bad at borrowing.}

“Aren’t you supposed to be setting, like, a good example for us?” Norman demanded.

{Where on Earth did you get such a ridiculous idea, Bugaboo?}

Norman sighed and turned back to Dipper. “What about the other girl—the friend of Pacifica’s?”

“I don’t really know her name, but I think I kinda have an idea where she lives. Besides, we just need to look for the house with the police cars outside it,” Dipper deduced easily. “The teachers said she disappeared while the Babysitter was there, so we should try to talk to the Babysitter.”

“And that goth that disappeared?”

With a sigh, Dipper conceded, “Seems no one witnessed that—not one willing to come forward, at any rate. Which sucks for us.”

“And for the goth,” Norman pointed out grimly. “You think . . . they’re all alright?”

Stirring his food distractedly, Dipper gave an honest answer. “I hope so. But . . . Well, it’s kinda hard to imagine that this demon fog (or poltergeist or whatever’s out there) would be doing all this for a nice reason.”

With a thoughtful nod, Norman added, “Probably lashing out because it’s hurt. I just h-hope . . . Hope it hasn’t hurt any of these kids.”

Detoby, looking out at the thick grayness, crossed his arms and shuddered. {I hope it doesn’t hurt _you_ kids . . . You sure you’re not getting in over your brush and capped heads?}

Norman chose to not convey that message to Dipper either.

****

When the final bell rang, Pacifica’s Minion #2 didn’t even both returning to her locker; she left the school directly. All she wanted was to go home—where it was safe and she was actually wanted.

Because Daddy didn’t pretend he cared about her. Daddy actually did care about her, and wouldn’t yell at her for not running fast enough or not paying attention or being covered in food that some jerk dumped on her like a jerk for no good reason! No one would whisper behind her back about how ugly or stupid she was! Not at home. No. At home, she could change her clothes, take a hot bath, and then just sit on the couch with Daddy and Mom and not do anything. Not pretend to feel anything. Not pretend anything at all.

So she walked quickly, outpacing the entire student body through neighborhoods that felt utterly deserted in the fog. Yards with no one in them—no gardening or mowing or hedging or pruning. Houses with blinds or shades drawn, and no light shining through them. Windows that had become like closed eyes in dead faces.

Shaking her head, Minion #2 wondered, “W-what am I thinking?”

She walked faster. Wanted just to get home faster.

There were no animals to be seen, either. No dogs chained to trees or behind fences. No cats. Trees without birds chirping in them—trees that didn’t even rustle in the wind, because there was no wind to rustle them. Silent neighborhoods. Utterly silent neighborhoods.

And deserted . . .

Except for whoever was walking behind her.

But when she turned around to look, she couldn’t see anybody. Maybe the fog was too thick.

She turned and resumed her fast pace. And there was the sound of footsteps behind her again. Strange that whoever was behind her would stop when she stopped . . . Or maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her? They did sound weird . . .

She stopped and listened. The footsteps stopped, too. Again she turned and looked, but again there was no one to be seen. But the fog was thick and made everything creepier than it really was . . .

“Just . . . imagining things ‘cause . . . I’m really stressed! Yeah, that’s it! Prob’ly just an echo . . .”

But when it started again, she couldn’t help but notice her footsteps. They were quick and short:

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

But these other footsteps, they were long and . . . didn’t sound right. Not real, somehow:

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

Like, maybe someone mimicking footsteps? But that didn’t seem right, either . . .

“H-hello?” she called nervously. “Anybody th-there?”

No answer. No footsteps, either; not while she was standing still.

She walked forward a pace.

Step . . .

She ran the rest of the way home and bolted the door when she got there.

****

{This is never going to work.}

“Detoby says this is never gonna work. And I agree with him,” Norman said flatly.

“Nonsense!” Dipper larked. “Now kneel down so I can get on your shoulders.”

Norman sighed longsufferingly. Then he complied.

Once perched on his friend’s shoulders, Dipper pointed straight ahead. “Now onward! To the Northwests’ mansion!”

“Wait a second . . . Why are you getting on my shoulders now, instead of once we’re there?”

“Onward, I say! Hya! Hya!” And the behatted boy spurred his friend forward. Literally.

“Ow! Fricative! Stop kicking me!”

“Onward, my mighty steed! To victory! Hya!”

“Ow! That hurts, you jerk!”

“The kicking will continue until our speed increases! Hya!”

“Ow! Ah! Oh, that is it!” And the Medium dumped his friend into the grass.

“Oof! Aw, man . . .” the behatted boy lamented. “I was tall for the first time in my life . . .”

“No, you were just sitting on my shoulders for the first time in your life.”

“Why you gotta bring me down like that, man?”

“Because you were kicking me. J-jerk.”

“A real friend wouldn’t be all bringing me down.”

“A real friend wouldn’t kick me to make me go faster!” Norman contested.

“Yeah . . . I kinda got carried away. Sorry.”

“Carried away on my shoulders,” Norman grumbled. “Besides, why can’t I be on the top?”

“Because I’m the one with a fake ID,” Dipper reminded him pointedly.

“Why do you even have a fake ID?”

“You never know when you’ll need one. It’s useful for investigations. Plus . . . your British accent is terrible. Terribly sorry to have to say it, old bean,” Dipper added. “But no one will believe that you come from Ye Jollye Olde England, what what?”

Detoby’s jaw dropped in awe. {Wow . . . That is impressive acting . . .}

In exasperation, Norman declared, “Saying ‘old bean’ every time you address someone does not make you sound British!”

“Fiddledeedee and pish posh!” Dipper said as he climbed out of the grass. “Now come along, Watson! The investigation is afoot, so we must be ashoe!”

{Heh! Because we’ll be all over the investigation! Not bad!} And the Jokergeist honked his horn.

“Detoby, you know this is never gonna work,” Norman tried to reason with him. “You said that.”

{Indeed I do, Bugaboo. But this will be too much fun not to watch!}

Rolling his eyes skyward, the Medium asked of the fog-veiled heavens, “Why am I going along with this insanity? I’m smarter than this.”

Dipper threw an arm around Norman’s shoulders. “C’mon! It’ll work great!”

The Medium, grudgingly, allowed himself to be dragged forward into the insanity. He was trying not to smile as he did. There was the answer to his why—whether it came from the heavens or not.

Once within sight of the Northwests’ mansion, Dipper climbed back onto Norman’s shoulders, replaced his cap for the bowler hat, applied his fake moustache, pulled the trenchcoat on over both himself and his friend, and hooked the umbrella to the crook of his elbow. “How do we look, Detoby?” he then asked of the empty air.

{Like a right proper Lord Lime of Ricki. The perfect British gentleman.}

From about halfway up the trenchcoat, Norman’s muffled voice growled, “This is nuts. You’re both nuts.”

“Nutters, old bean,” Dipper corrected him.

“How am I even supposed to know where I’m going? I can’t see.”

“I’ll just narrate what you should do—like a proper British eccentric.”

“No one does that. And no one says ‘old bean’!”

“Silence, lower intestines. Forward, legs. Straight forward.”

Grumbling, Norman complied.

****

“D-Daddy? Are you here? Daddy? M-Mom?”

The house was silent. No one was home.

“W-where are they? Why’d they leave me all alone? D-don’t they . . . love me anymore? MOM?! DADDY?!”

But, wait . . .

“No. M-Mom’s with Grandma . . . And Daddy’s still at work . . . Yeah. Like always. I’m j-just . . . being silly over nothing . . . I’m home. I’m safe. And Daddy’ll be back soon.”

Letting her bag drop to the ground, Minion #2 stepped away from the now bolted front door. She gazed out the window, but saw nothing. Whoever had been following her, she couldn’t see them.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t see her.

She pulled the drapes shut. Then she ran to the next window, and did the same. She did this in every room of the house, doublechecking that every single window was bolted as she did. She also turned on all the lights as she did. Even the ones in the closets.

Because, yes, Daddy would be home soon—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make the place feel less lonely until then. Maybe make it look like a lot of people were home, too.

She changed out of her stained outfit, returned to the living room, and turned on the TV.

The cable was out. All that showed was a blue box on a black screen saying the cable was out.

“Okay . . . N-no big deal . . . Maybe the radio?”

Static. On every station. Nothing but static.

“I can . . . download some music off the internet . . .”

No internet connection. And, on top of that, she couldn’t find her iPod anywhere.

“D-don’t panic . . . Keep calm . . . A bath. That’ll help. Yeah. A bath . . .”

But the water only came out lukewarm. Worse than cold.

With a scream she struck at the water. But all that accomplished was splashing herself.

“This is . . . the worst day ever . . . The worst . . . I’m calling D-Daddy!”

But the call would not connect. Not the first time she tried, nor the second, nor the third.

She was alone. All alone in an empty house. And someone was maybe outside, watching her.

Trying hard not to lose control—trying hard not to breakdown and cry—Minion #2 sat at the kitchen table. There was a pad of paper on it, and she stared at it.

“I could d-draw . . . That always helps me feel better . . . I’ll d-draw until Daddy comes home.”

She had to look to find a pen, but eventually she took one from her backpack.

She never noticed the pencil on the ground, nor the note that had slipped under the couch and sat not five feet away. The one that said Daddy wasn’t coming home tonight . . .

****

A security guard was stationed at the entrance to the Northwest grounds, and he eyed the odd, disjointed motions of the approaching man with a professional boredom. The oddest part, he decided to himself, was the fruity way this approaching man in a trenchcoat chattered on—as if narrating himself. Almost like a fruity, English intellectual. From Cambridge, maybe.

“Why, I do believe I spy a security guard straight in front of me about ten paces . . . Toodle-pip, old bean! Just give me a moment to reach you! Now I stop in front of you and we have a jolly good chat. Lovely weather, isn’t it? A fine fog such as one hardly sees this side of the Pond, what what?”

“Er—”

“Yes, as you can see, I am clearly British. Basil Dippingsauce, at your service, old bean.”

“Um—”

“Just strolling along this country lane. I thought I might pay a spot of a visit to my good friend, the Butler here. I understand he’s had a rough-of-it recently and all. He is, as you may know, also British. That is where I met him—in Britain—old bean. Please do not take any bother; I can let myself in.”

“I need to see some identification first, Mister Dippingsauce,” the security guard stated boredly. “Driver’s License, or the like.”

“Ah. That might cause a bit of a sticky wicket. You see, not being American, I do not actually have an American . . . um, Motorist’s Badge.”

A grumbling noise.

“Please ignore my stomach. I may need a digestive biscuit. And tea. Motorist’s Badge is what we call the license to operate a vehicle in England, you see. We drive on the wrong side there, you know.”

“Hmm . . . Well, your story checks out . . .” the security guard admitted.

“Indubitably.”

Another grumbling noise.

“Do you maybe have some British identification?”

“But of course. Here it is in my pocket. Just let me step forward closer to you one step . . . and now I can give you my British identification. You’ll note that I have been awarded the Royal Thumbs Up for acts of valor during the . . . war. I forget which one, exactly, being eccentric and British. What what?”

“So I see. My apologies for the inconvenience, Sir Dippingsauce. Please go right ahead.”

“Many thanks, old bean. Good show and carry on. I will now mind the step because, as a knight, it would simply be embarrassing to trip over the step . . . And there! Cheers, old bean! Up the curvy driveway I go—the driveway that curves to the left, not the right. Jolly good, I say.”

About one hundred feet later, once completely invisible from the entrance to the grounds, Dipper hissed, “Okay, I think we’re good. I’m getting down now.”

“That should not have worked!” Norman hissed back. “Part of me is upset right now because that stupid—absolutely fecund stupid—idea worked even though it shouldn’t have!”

“And the other part?”

Sulkily, Norman admitted, “Is excited we’re in.”

“Heh. Fistbump?”

“Yeah, fistbump . . .” And now that the behatted boy was down, Norman asked, “So what now?”

“Well . . . I think we might have stumbled onto the crime scene,” Dipper observed with a gesture ahead of them, where a long cordon of bright tape was staked to the ground. “You wanna take a look?”

Norman nodded. “Makes sense. They might throw us out when we try to talk to the Butler. Um, maybe you should t-take off the fake moustache now?”

“Hmm?” Dipper tried to look at his lower lip. “Oh! Forgot all about that. Feels strangely natural. Maybe when I get older I should—”

“No,” Norman said flatly. “Not a good look.”

{Hey!} Detoby said with a self-conscious touch of his own spectral facial hair.

“You don’t think it suits me?” Dipper asked, somewhat disappointed.

“Well, n-not by itself!” the Medium added by way of explanation. “M-maybe with a full beard, but not just by itself. You l-look . . . _fine_ without it . . .” he muttered, turning away to hide his blush. “Besides, you’re like th-thirteen. Moustaches look weird on thirteen-year-olds. And on everybody.”

{Hey! Some words hurt, Norman. Some words hurt.}

Dipper countered, “Works for Gordito in Doctor McNinja.”

“I have n-no idea what that means.”

Removing the moustache and the bowler hat, Dipper said, “One of the best webcomics ever. Anyway, time to get to work . . . So what do we see here?”

Norman looked. “Footprints. Looks like they come down from the house and go . . . Off across the yard that way.”

Dipper looked closer. “A girl’s boot—high-heeled—and a full-grown man in sensible dress shoes. Look at the sizes and the styles. A deep heel with a pointed toe, but a small footprint. Pacifica’s, I bet. And then a big print with little tread. Meant for indoor wear. The Butler’s.”

{Wow. Well, if the shoe fits—}

“Bite your tongue, Detoby.”

The jokergeist returned fire. {Cool your heels before you try and give me the boot.}

“Only if you toe the line.”

{Nice . . . But I can take your criticisms in stride,} the Jokergeist retorted.

“I’m warning you. Tread lightly, or you’ll have to make tracks. Because—”

With a grunt of disgust, Dipper interjected, “Guys, can we focus on the investigation here?”

{I regret nothing,} Detoby confided to Norman.

“Me neither,” the Medium agreed. “You notice both run off across the yard, Dipper Holmes? And I mean run—look how far apart each footprint is.”

Dipper pursed his lips appraisingly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m p-probably taller than Pacifica, right? ‘Cause I’m taller than most in our class. But look at my step.” He pointed at the tracks he left in the moist dirt—perhaps the only benefit of the fog was that the ground was a constant moistness. “It’s shorter than hers. She must’ve been running. H-hard.”

“Hmm . . . And the Butler’s footprints are pretty far apart, too . . . So he ran, too, you think?”

“I g-guess, yeah . . .”

{And he ran after her.} Detoby floated down next to the two trails of footprints and indicated several places where the Butlers’ covered Pacifica’s. {Maybe right behind, maybe shortly after.}

“Good point.” And Norman transmitted that information to Dipper. “Did he . . . c-chase her?”

“Meaning that she was running _from_ _him_?” The behatted boy considered that. “No . . . I don’t think so. Why would she? Plus, I imagine that the police would’ve looked at him pretty closely after. But he hasn’t been arrested . . . No, I think she ran from something else, and then he ran the same way . . . Probably trying to find her, like it says in the paper.”

“W-what’s it say exactly?”

“Oh . . . His account is she was terrified there was someone outside the house trying to get her, even though he saw nothing on surveillance. Then she panicked—like whoever it was got in the house—and ran out, he tried to find her, then there was a flash like a torch or maybe headlamps across the yard, and . . . she was gone,” Dipper reported.”

“Torch?” Norman repeated questioningly.

“Flashlight in British. Old bean. What what?”

Norman considered that. So did Detoby. {If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a kidnapper . . . But we do know better. Yes we do, Bugaboo.}

The Medium nodded. “Unless they were manifesting, a poltergeist wouldn’t show on camera . . . But why would a poltergeist or a demon or whatever need a flashlight?” he wondered.

“I think we should follow the tracks. See what else they can tell us,” Dipper declared.

Walking beside the cordon of tape soon brought them to the edge of the Northwests’ grounds. A high wall encircled the premises—perhaps eight feet tall or more. Against it, there was a muddling of Pacifica’s footprints, but they did not advance further. The Butler’s paced back and forth along the wall, slightly ahead of hers, and then turned and looped back up in the direction of the mansion itself.

“Couldn’t have been headlights, then,” Norman remarked. “This wall is solid. No light would shine though this . . .”

“Looks like . . . Pacifica made it to here, and sorta . . . moved around a bit . . .” Dipper deduced.

“Like she w-wasn’t sure what to do next?” Norman suggested. “Milled around?”

“Yes, exactly. But then . . . Her tracks just stop. The Butler’s go back and forth for a bit—”

“Like he was searching for her.”

“I think so,” Dipper agreed. “But, after he couldn’t find her . . . he goes back to the house. Maybe calls for help—the police, the parents, and probably the freaking National Guard.”

{Where were the parents?}

“Political function with the Governor,” Dipper answered once the question was put to him.

In awe, Norman asked, “How do you know all this?”

“Looked in the paper for more information—official information, if that’s worth anything,” Dipper added with the skepticism of the conspiratorially convinced. “The evidence seems to match up with the state’s version. So far, at least . . . Anyway, I just investigated known info, y’know?”

“R-right. Um . . . Are the Butler’s tracks the same d-depth going back as coming here? Just to, y’know, be sure he wasn’t carrying her?” Norman suggested.

“They . . . look like it . . .”

{Leave this to mwa!} Detoby volunteered. He then bobbed along the surface of the soil (as if it was water) to measure the depth of the footprints against his spectral fingernail, and then zoomed off to compare that against the earlier footprints. His conclusion was, {It does _not_ look like he was carrying any extra weight while returning to the mansion.}

The Medium immediately transmitted this information.

“As expected. So she came here, and then . . . didn’t take a step further.” Looking at the top of the wall, Dipper observed, “That’s way too high for someone our size to jump . . . Plus, she never turns around to face the wall . . . Couldn’t jump over it with her back to it . . .”

“C-could something have pulled her over?” Norman hazarded nervously.

“Maybe . . . Detoby, can you check on the other side for footprints?”

The Jokergeist Charlestoned through the wall with a {Twenty-three skidoo!} But a second later, he stuck his incorporeal head back through it. {Nuts to footprints.}

“None . . .” Norman reported.

“What if she was carried?”

“Wouldn’t that still leave footprints?” Norman reasoned. “Like if the Butler had carried her.”

“I dunno. Would a poltergeist or demon need to set foot on the ground?” Dipper asked.

Norman considered that. “I g-guess the flash . . . could’ve been from s-some spiritual energy . . . But Aggie didn’t flash,” he recalled doubtfully. “She was a c-constant glow until she p-passed over . . .”

“What about a fog demon?”

“I have n-no idea how a demon would manifest. Fog or otherwise.”

“But . . . I mean, she couldn’t just vanish into thin air . . . Could she?”

{With this fog, it would be into thick air . . .} Detoby quipped with a shudder.

With his hand running through his hair, Norman faltered, “She’s part of the physical w-world, and a m-manifestation is when something spiritual appears in the physical world. D-does physical things. I have no idea how her tracks can just . . . s-stop like this . . . But she m-must’ve been physically carried somehow . . . Must have . . .”

Rubbing his chin reflectively, Dipper looked back over the wall as best he could. “There a lot of trees on the other side, Detoby?”

{Couldn’t throw a rock without hitting two trees.}

“He says yes.”

“Hmm . . . What if it’s something that can swing from branch to branch?”

Norman’s eyes immediately shot up. “W-why do you say that?”

“Just thinking aloud . . . Tossing around ideas to see if anything makes sense . . .”

“I . . . g-guess it’s possible . . .” the Medium conceded doubtfully. He was now staring at the top of the fence uneasily. All he could think of was hands reaching out of the trees to grab him.

“You think now we should go see the Butler?”

“Yes! I mean, if you want. Whatever,” Norman tried to say casually.

They returned to the front door (perhaps with increased haste—both were trying to pretend they weren’t hurrying away from the trees, but both were subconsciously) and, after quickly tidying up their appearances (as much as two teenage boys can tidy themselves up), rang the bell.

Within a few seconds, an almost imperturbable man in almost immaculate formal attire answered. “How may I help you, young sirs?”

“Um . . . Hi!” Dipper tried to say brightly. “We’re friends of Pacifica, and—”

“I’m afraid the young miss is not in at the moment.” Did a twitch of emotion cross his face when he informed them of this fact? Pain? Impossible to say; he was that good at butlering.

“Y-yeah, we know. We heard about . . . we heard,” Dipper replied.

“Then why exactly are you here?”

Norman jumped in with appropriate sympathy. “We just wanted to say how s-sorry we were.”

“Very good, sirs, but I’m afraid the master and mistress of the house are presently indisposed—”

“Not to them s-so much as . . . to you,” Norman stated quietly.

A flash of actual surprise betrayed itself upon the Butler’s face. “To me, you say?”

“She always s-says that you . . . you care about her m-more than anyone else,” the Medium invented on the spot (and to the awe of the behatted boy and the Jokergeist). “Though you d-don’t like to show it all in the open. And also that sh-she . . . that she wishes she was b-better at showing you . . . how grateful she is to have a friend like you.”

“I . . . I see . . .” Benjamin faltered.

{Bugaboo! You silver-tongued devil, you!} Detoby crowed aloud.

“So we wanted to say how sorry we are this happened,” Dipper interjected gravely. “And that we’re sure everything will work out alright.”

“That is very kind of you both. Very kind, indeed.”

“Did it happen like it says in the papers? Because if so, then you did everything you could.”

“Yes. I proofread the daily for accuracy myself, and yes. It is entirely accurate.”

With a commiserating nod, Dipper intoned, “Then you really did everything you could.”

“Would that I had done more . . . But it was so sudden, and she ran from safety no matter how often I begged her to return! I cannot help but feel responsible . . .” Benjamin confessed.

{You both are truly diabolical. Probably because you’re so adorable—no one would expect such deviousness from you little angels,} Detoby commented in amazement. {Halos held up by horns!}

Norman tried to ignore this. Looking annoyed would not help their cover. “Not your f-fault. Whatever took her is responsible for this.”

“Indeed. And there shall be a proper Manchester reckoning once I know who,” Benjamin vowed with quiet wrath. The wrath of a professional.

“I was wondering one thing, sir, if it’s not too much trouble,” Dipper added meekly. “You said there was a flash of light. Like a flashlight or headlights, maybe?”

“I believe my exact words were ‘torch’ and ‘headlamps’, but yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well . . . why did you say that? I mean, why did you think it was either of those?”

The Butler considered that. “That was . . . my impression. I did not see clearly what it was, but there was a slow flash, as if someone was sweeping the beam of a torch in my direction, or bringing around a car. And then it just . . . appeared to go out. Do you see what I mean?”

“Like . . . It sorta got brighter first?” Norman guessed.

“Perhaps that was it. But it seemed more that it arced slowly in my direction, and then arced quickly away. I wish I knew better what it was I saw. I feel so drattedly useless,” Benjamin almost cursed.

“She was sorta acting strange on Monday at school. Do think that has anything to do with this?” Dipper asked conversationally.

“It is . . . puzzling to me. She acted so bitterly concerning a row with her friends. And then she was convinced that some man would get into the house and take her away. Really peculiar, it was. Irrationally certain of it . . . utterly terrified . . .” Benjamin shook his head in disbelief. “But I have checked and doublechecked and triplechecked all of our security cameras. There was no one there.”

“She s-said it was a _man_?” Norman inquired nervously.

“And she insisted that she had seen him following her throughout the day and had heard him outside the house—not unlike my old Uncle Nigel. The poor man was a paranoiac, and convinced that Mao Zedong had dispatched agents to survey him. Saw them everywhere, the poor old bean.”

“Ha!” Dipper burst out. But he then recovered and excused himself, “Sorry. A cough.”

“Did she say what the m-man . . . what the man l-looked like at all?” Norman asked quickly.

“A bunch of nonsense, I’m afraid,” the Butler sighed sadly. “To hear her . . . well, you would think an inhuman monster stalked her. Certainly the vile creature is inhuman, but it no doubt wears a human mask. Like all the worst monsters!” he seethed with a stiff upper lip.

“Y-yeah . . .” Norman squeaked. An inhuman monster . . . So perhaps it really was a demon?

“What baffles me is that she developed this paranoia in so little time. Sunday (the day before all this), she was as happy as a clam . . . But she woke up strangely moody Monday morning, complaining of a headache, and then everything went to pot from there. It took Uncle Nigel years before he ranted about communist agents.”

Dipper glanced sideways at Norman, just as Norman glanced sideways at Dipper (and Detoby).

{Sunday, he says . . . And this fog blew in late on Sunday . . . _And_ that’s when the goth vanished.}

“Yeah . . .” Norman murmured.

After a brief pause, Dipper cleared his throat. “W-well . . . We don’t want to take up too much of your time, sir. Like he said, we just wanted to say how sorry we are. And that this wasn’t your fault.”

“She’ll be alright,” Norman added hopefully. “She w-will.”

“Thank you, young sirs. You are both . . . very kind lads,” Benjamin said almost emotionally. “Take care. Please do. You really ought to stay indoors, where it is safe. A _monster_ is on the loose.”

Floating between the boys, Detoby bit his lip. That was true, wasn’t it? And yet, here they were, trying to find the source of the trouble instead of staying as far away from it as possible.

“We’ll be careful,” Dipper assured the Butler as they walked away. “Keep calm and carry on.”

“Very good, sir. I shall endeavor.”

As the two boys proceeded quickly down the drive, Dipper asked, “Did you hear _that_?”

“Y-yeah . . . Definitely sounds p-paranormal, and all this started on S-Sunday. With the fog. Definitely a connection. But that flash is—”

“More importantly,” Dipper interjected, “he said ‘old bean’.”

Norman heaved a sigh. “Okay, but just because _one_ Brit—”

“He said ‘old bean’. _He_ _said_ _it_. And I sounded _just_ _like_ _him_ when I talked.”

“You sounded nothing like him. You sounded like _Mister_ _Bean_ during puberty.”

“So you admit that I sounded like a British citizen,” Dipper concluded triumphantly.

“And you’re happy to sound like Mister Bean during puberty? What the fricative, man?”

“British people Dipper sounds like: at least one. British people Norman sounds like: none at all.” And then he started humming the chorus to “Rule Brittania”, except with “Dipper” as the only word:

“Dip-per, _Dip_-_per_!

Dip-_per_-Dip-_per_-Dip-_per_!

_Dip_-per, DipperDipperDipper, Dip-per _Dipper_!”

Norman rolled his eyes so hard they almost came unscrewed. “Why exactly do I like hanging out with you? I’m trying to figure it out right now, but I just can’t make sense of it.”

With a grin, the behatted boy said, “You’re just jealous that I sound cultured and sophisticated.”

“Yeah . . . That’s _clearly_ what it is . . .” Norman retorted sarcastically.

They passed the security guard then, and Dipper tipped his trademark cap and called, “Cheerio!” He couldn’t resist. It didn’t matter that much; they disappeared into the fog before the security guard could register the incongruity of what he had just seen that day.

“W-where to now?” Norman asked. “Should we go see the other house?”

“Yep. Let’s compare the Butler’s testimony with the Babysitter’s.”

{Or . . . Just a brain-niggle here . . .} Detoby submitted reticently. {You could _listen_ to the Butler. Maybe we call it a day? Not have you two kids wandering around in a fog that may be hiding a monster? Or worse?}

“W-what’re you talking about, Detoby?” Norman tried to ask unconcernedly.

{I’m just . . . worried that you two are getting in over your heads. Your adorable _little_ _kid_ heads,} the Jokergeist added, but not jokingly. {The Butler’s right; there’s a monster on the loose.}

Norman scowled.

Noticing this, Dipper asked, “What _is_ he talking about?”

{And yet here you two are. Alone. Unprotected. Practically sending trouble an invitation.}

“We have you,” the Medium countered.

{Yeah. And I’m a regular French cavalry,} Detoby muttered bitterly. {Not at all useless.}

Norman transmitted all this to Dipper. Then he countered, “And what about the Multibear?”

Detoby halted in his floating tracks. {The . . . Multibear?}

“What about what he said?” Norman continued. “He said it’s _my_ responsibility to stop this. Because no one else can.”

“_Our_ responsibility, man,” the behatted boy asserted emphatically. “You don’t do it alone.”

“Th-thanks, Dipper,” Norman said sincerely. He turned back to Detoby and asked, “So you in? You coming with us to talk to the Babysitter?”

{Of course I’m coming with you, Bugaboo. I’m sticking like glue until we get you safely home.}

“G-good. Then let’s go.”

And while the boys hurried off, talking and laughing together, Detoby said to himself, {But later, I think I need to make a little visit up the mountain . . . I am such a goof for not thinking of this sooner. Who better to ask about all this supernatural stuff than the Multibear?}

****

“Girls! How’s the bathroom coming?!” Stan yelled from the museum floor of the Mystery Shack. He was currently working with Soos to realign every exhibit with the walls. It was ninety degree angles as far as the eye could see. OCDelightful.

“Fine, Mister Pines!” Grenda answered for them all.

“Good! But don’t dawdle! I need you all in the kitchen once you finish!”

Stamping her foot, Mabel marched out of the bathroom with a resolution to tell her great-uncle they were through cleaning his bathrooms. A second later, however, she staggered back in; her eyes were scrunched shut and she was rubbing her temples irritably. “Why are the walls so freaking _shiny_?! It’s giving me a headache . . .”

“Again?” Candy asked solicitously. “Are you not feeling well again? Do you need a break?”

“No, not if you guys are gonna keep cleaning . . . Wouldn’t be fair . . . _How’d_ we get drafted into this anyway?”

Candy and Grenda both considered that.

“I’m . . . not sure . . .” the larger girl conceded. “All I remember is him picking us up at school . . . And then, the next thing I know, I’m using a toilet brush . . .”

Scrubbing the mirror, Candy whispered, “Mabel, I think your gruncle might have _powers_ . . . Powers like _mind_ _control_ . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous, guys. He’s just . . . good at schmoozing tourists and convincing them to buy things like snow globes and . . . And no one’d _ever_ buy a snow globe if they weren’t being brainwashed, would they?”

Grenda and Candy both shook their heads. “Utterly useless,” the former agreed; the latter said, “And tacky. _Very_ tacky.”

“And we’re here cleaning this bathroom when we could be doing _anything_ _else_,” Mabel realized. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Gotta be magic, or something . . . Maybe one of his chains is charmed?”

“It could be psychic powers,” Candy suggested.

“No. Psychics are fakes,” Mabel snapped (more forecefully then she intended). “And anyone who claims to have psychic powers is a fakey liar. Who somehow gets out of doing their share of work! Seriously, where _is_ my brother and his stupid, fakey friend?! How’d they get out of having to scrub bathrooms and kitchens and stuff?!”

Shrugging, Grenda replied, “They just took off after class.”

“Maybe he really is a psychic—That was a _joke_!” Candy inserted on seeing Mabel’s expression.

“Probably working on their _dumb_ investigation. Being all, ‘Durrr solve a mystery herp a derp!’.”

“That sounds kinda fun,” Grenda stated.

Mabel looked away from the others. “Yeah . . .”

“Girls! Less blubbing, more scrubbing!”

****

Outside the home of Minion #1, a police cruiser sat and idled. It appeared that forensics had come and gone, however; a long trail of grass was cordoned off like before, and there was just one deputy present. Said deputy looked rather bored; everyone else was off searching with the employees of the various businesses owned by the Northwests. They now had three children they could not find.

Taking a covert position behind some bushes, Dipper contemplated the situation. “Hmm . . . Think that deputy would let us get close enough to examine those footprints?”

“Probably not,” Norman replied beside him.

The Jokergeist grinned slyly. {He can’t stop me from peeping!}

“Detoby says he can look for us.”

“Please do, Mister Ghost,” Dipper requested.

And, after a brief moment of waiting, Detoby returned and reported, {One set of footprints. And the footprints are small. There’s also a deep heel and a pointed toe, like before. Probably the girl.}

“Did she run?” Norman inquired.

{You bet your bottom buckaroo, Bugaboo. Unfortunately, the tracks lead into the street, so there’s no way to tell if they just stopped like that other girl’s or not.}

After being told all of this, Dipper asked, “And there were no other tracks at all? You’re sure?”

“He says no,” Norman transmitted. “Well, on the bright side, it couldn’t have been something in the t-trees if she was taken from the middle of the street.”

“Unless she ran under the trees,” Dipper contested. “After she reaches the pavement, we have no way of knowing where she went exactly. No tracks to tell us.”

“Oh, yeah . . .” And Norman glanced overhead nervously.

“So the question is, do we bother trying the parents or go straight to the Babysitter?”

Behind them, an older girl’s voice asked, “Why would you go to me?”

Both boys jolted upright and spun around. “Oh! H-hello!”

{The jig is up!} And Detoby reflexively dove for cover under the bush. Coincidentally, he ended about six feet under it at first.

The Babysitter, who looked haggard and was holding a casserole dish, repeated, “Why would you go to me? Who are you?”

“Um . . . Y-you don’t know us,” Dipper stammered. “This is my friend Norman Babcock, and I’m Dipper Pines. We—”

“Dipper?” she repeated vaguely.

“Th-that’s my name, yep. Or my nickname at least.”

“That’s a _nick_name?” Norman couldn’t help but ask. “What’s your real name?”

“_Unimportant_,” Dipper said to him in an undertone. “W-we’re here to ask—”

“Do you know Tambry?” the Babysitter asked all of a sudden.

The behatted boy blinked. “Wendy Corduroy’s friend?”

“So you . . . Are you the kid that beat the ghosts at the Dusk 2 Dawn?”

He blinked again. “How do you know about that?”

“Tambry tweets everything. Like, _everything_,” the Babysitter replied. “I read all of those and thought she was punking her followers. But she told me it all happened . . . So . . . Did it?”

“Y-yeah. Everything happened exactly like she said. Not the slightest detail was off. Heheheh,” Dipper forced himself to laugh casually. “Listen. W-we, um . . . we want to ask you some questions.”

“About last n-night. If that’s okay,” Norman added quickly.

Though worn out from a sleepless night and a stressful day, she eyed them both curiously. “Why? Do you think . . . some sorta ghost took her?”

Dipper and Norman both exchanged a glance. Eventually, Norman replied, “We’re not s-sure. But we th-think there’s maybe something paranormal happening. S-so . . . we need to ask you some questions to see if we’re right about that.”

Lowering her eyes, she admitted, “I wasn’t . . . um, actually here when it happened. Forgot my toothbrush at home, so I ran to grab it. I don’t . . . I can’t’ve been gone more’n ten freakin’ minutes! But she was gone when I got back!” All of this was said in an emotional rush, as tears of guilt and frustration began to flow.

Awkwardly, the behatted boy took the casserole for her. “You didn’t see or hear anything?”

“N-no . . .”

“Not even . . . Say, a light of some kind?”

Wiping her eyes, she stated, “No. Me? I didn’t. Heard some neighbors say they saw a light or something after a scream. Car maybe? But _I_ didn’t.”

“Was she acting weird at all?”

“Moody, yeah. But that’s understandable. Her best friend disappeared yesterday, and she had a fight with her other best friend today. Also got nailed in the face with a soccer ball.”

{Ouch,} Detoby murmured sympathetically, though only the Medium heard it.

“But not paranoid or anything?” Dipper specified.

“Well . . . She was really upset about her folks going to see a concert out of town. Said nobody cared about her at all, which was weird . . . But she spent, like, the entire day up in her room. Every time I tried to get her to come down, she’d yell at me to just leave her alone.”

“Hmm . . .”

Norman took over, asking, “S-so she didn’t like . . . seem to think anyone was after her?”

The Babysitter looked straight at him. She looked confused and frightened. “She did, er, try to send me a . . . really _weird_ text while I was gone. It didn’t go through, though. All the phones and . . . everything seems to be weird lately. Computers and stuff, too.”

Norman nodded. “Y-yeah . . .”

“How do you know about the text if it didn’t send?” Dipper inquired.

“Her phone was lying on the f-floor when I got back. It was still on the screen. Like . . . maybe she tried to send it, but . . . dropped the phone? Got scared and ran before she could? Or w-was taken?” the Babysitter choked up as she said it.

“Do you remember what the text said?” Dipper asked evenly. “This could be important.”

“I . . . I copied it on my phone. Letter for letter. It just . . . I dunno. Seemed like the thing to do.”

“Can we see it?” Norman asked eagerly.

“Um. Sure, I guess.”

Pulling out her phone, she opened her drafts to show them the message:

< help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >

In a flash, Dipper produced some paper and a pen to copy the message down exactly.

Beside him, looking through Norman’s shoulder, Detoby read, {X and Q? What does that mean?}

“I think that’s an emoticon—a picture made of letters,” the Medium answered automatically. “Shows someone . . . screaming.”

{Huh? Oh . . . I see it now,} the Jokergeist floated horizontally to look at it. {Yikes . . . As if my spine needed more shivers.}

“And this is exact?” Dipped exiged. “Every letter?”

“Every letter,” the Babysitter declared somberly.

As Dipper recorded the last character, he asked, “Do you know what she was trying to say? What ‘tal mn nfac’ means, for example?”

She shook her head. “No idea. Been thinking about it all day, but . . . The second part looks like ‘come get me help please! help me’ . . . But I guess I could be wrong . . . I was wrong about going to get my toothbrush,” she sniffed bitterly.

{But if she’d been here at the time, it would’ve probably taken her, too,} Detoby contested.

“Yeah!” Norman agreed. And then he told her as much.

But she shook her head. “You don’t know that. I could’ve maybe stopped this . . . I gotta go now. Gotta give her parents this casserole I made and . . . and try and think of a way to say I’m s-sorry . . .” About half way across the yard, she turned back around and called, “If you figure out what it is, tell me! Gonna kick its ass for this!”

The two boys (and one ghost) stood (and floated) in silence for a long, sober moment.

“We really gotta s-stop this,” Norman final said quietly.

“Yeah . . .” Dipper concurred. “What time is it?”

“A little after five.”

“We still got time to . . . maybe do something today.”

“Like what?”

“Like review the evidence. Compile it into notes and see if we missed something or if something jumps out at us,” Dipper answered succinctly. “Maybe have a breakthrough and stop this all tonight. Who knows?”

“M-my house is closer,” Norman offered timidly. “You can have d-dinner with my f-family, and someone can drive you home again. That should make Detoby happy,” he added with a shy smile. He didn’t add, “And me.” He did think it, though.

The Jokergeist conceded, {Happier, at any rate.}

“Yeah, okay,” Dipper replied distractedly—too distracted to notice that he had just made Norman smile widely. “Some food’ll definitely help us recharge . . . Think better . . .”

****

Minion #2 bent painfully low over the pad of paper, scrawling across it in a rush.

“Daddy’ll come home soon . . .”

The pen she was using ran dry. She cast it over her shoulder to clatter on the ground. Two other pens had already suffered the same fate, and the fourth one she dug from her backpack would probably suffer it as well. Once it was uncapped, she began frantically sketching again.

“Daddy’ll come home soon . . . Soon now . . .”

She paid no attention to what she was sketching. All of her concentration was focused on each individual line as it flowed from the tip. If they all formed an image together, great; she had stopped caring twenty sketches ago.

“Daddy’ll come home soon . . . He will . . .”

When some instinct whispered that the current page was finished, she turned it over without even glancing at the finished project. Started the next sketch. The point was just to fill the page—to fill the seconds between now and whenever everything would be better than now.

“D-Daddy’ll come home soon . . . He has to . . . Has to . . .”

Fill the page. Fill the seconds. Keeping filling the page. Keep filling the seconds.

“D-Daddy’ll . . . Daddy’ll come home soon . . . C-come home soon . . .”

Tears started running down her cheeks. The seconds seemed to never end, but there were only so many pages. Part of her knew the pages would run out before the seconds did.

“C-come home soon . . . Come home s-soon . . . D-Daddy! Come home soon, Daddy!”

****

With spectral knitting needles clicking as she spoke, Elaine said to Detoby, {I was a little worried when you boys walked in here. You all looked so very serious . . . But just listen to those two chatter and laugh together. I’m surprised their mouths can find time for the food . . . He—Norman—really has been happier since the two of you came into his life, you know.}

Floating beside her over the couch, the Jokergeist replied wearily, {We had . . . a serious day . . . I’m just glad some food is perking them back up a bit. I wouldn’t say no to a bite or two, myself.}

{You better be talking about dinner.}

A grin lifted up his rather downcast face. {Well, I certainly am talking about a _dish_.}

{Just because I let you spend the night here doesn’t mean I won’t maim you. You put those eyebrows back down this instant.}

{How do you even know what my eyebrows are doing? You’re not even looking at me.}

{Woman’s intuition,} she said shortly. {Now lower them.}

{Yes, ma’am.}

{So what made today so serious? I presume you spent it still looking into the disappearances?}

{Interviewed some witnesses—which is never easy after they’ve suffered some sort of loss,} Detoby declared with the weight of an experienced journalist. {The kids aren’t bad at it, let me tell you. The NorMedium, especially. Has a flair for getting people to hand over their beans—not spill them, but just hand them over as easy as you please. We also took a gander, a goose, and about three goslings at the two known scenes of the crimes. They . . . raise more questions than they answer . . .}

Elaine signaled for him to continue.

{Well, there were footprints at the first that just seem to stop all of sudden. Just stop.}

{Like she vanished into thin air?}

{Or thick fog air. But _how_?} he wondered emphatically. {That’s the question. Where’d she go? Because she had to go somewhere. And even if . . . something terrible happened to her, there would still be traces of it. Bodies don’t just disappear. Trust me; I’ve seen plenty come out of the damnedest places you could imagine. There’s always physical evidence—always a trail.}

{Except right now?}

{Not that anyone has found. And the second girl left this screwy communiqué on her phone—}

{A text message?}

{Aren’t all messages texts?}

{No, I mean . . .} Elaine capitulated with a sigh. {Never mind. What about the ‘communiqué’?}

{It seems to be gibberish. But ominous gibberish. Gibominoush. And, of course, the kids worry we have to find what’s responsible before it takes someone else. But me? I’m worried they’ll find it, and then whatever it is will take _them_. But it’s not like I can stop them . . .}

Elaine looked up slowly from her knitting. {Should I be worried about this?}

{Heh. Absaposalutely. But don’t tell the NorMedium I said that.}

{Well . . . He has done things like this before,} Elaine tried to reassure herself.

{You mean the time he calmed down an upset little girl? Yeah, that’s practically the same thing,} Detoby retorted sarcastically.

{A little girl who made a tornado and raised the dead. Still . . . Maybe I should come with you.}

Rubbing the bridge of his substantial nose, Detoby asked, {And do what? Look out for them? That’s exactly what I’m doing. But what could either of us really do if they were actually in a scrape?}

{We can make them stop looking now.}

{Elaine, my angel, I thoroughly believe you could find a way to kill me even though I’m dead. But I doubt even you could deter these boys. It doesn’t help that the Multibear told them it’s their duty. Right before telling me mine is somehow keeping them safe,} he said with a rueful smile. {Easy task, no? Stopping those boys from doing what they think they should do. I intend to have words with him soon. Ask him about what’s going on. And I don’t care how many elk he’s eaten—he will not sleep through it this time! I can honk this thing pretty loud!}

{Will he know anything?}

{I hope so . . .}

Looking back to the kitchen, to where her grandson and his friend sat laughing side by side, Elaine asked anxiously, {Do you have any idea what it is they’re up against?}

{Maybe another spooky mook like your or me. Maybe a fog demon. Could be a big monkey in the trees, for all we know,} he groused.

{You really have no idea?} Elaine asked disbelievingly.

{We have so little to go on. It’s just too hard to say . . . as the man with a lisp said of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan,} the Jokergeist quipped half-heartedly. And then, as both boys finished, he drifted up. {Please excuse me, _madame_-_gazelle_. I should help them compile everything.}

{Don’t let them stay up too late,} she ordered. {They do need a full night’s sleep for school.}

{Heh. Worrying about school on top of everything . . . Now that’s funny . . .}

****

It was only a brief thought. Impossible to say what in the little room of the Boise hospital could have triggered it. Perhaps his wife dozing against his shoulder, or maybe the sound of the heart monitor connected to his drugged mother-in-law.

If it had a sound, it would not be too different from that regular little ping, for it was like a ping from somewhere in the back of his memory. A realization that, if put into words, would have been, “Oh. I forgot to call and make sure everything worked out for my daughter to stay with her friend.”

He could have reached for his phone then and attempted the call. But doing so would certainly have disturbed his wife, and she looked exhausted.

Eventually, he decided, “I’m sure it worked out alright . . . I would’ve heard about it, if not . . .” Which wasn’t an unreasonable assumption, even if it was flawed.

His wife shifted slightly against his shoulder.

“Shhh, Pudding Pop . . . Everything’s okay . . . Go back to sleep . . .”

“Mmm . . . Love you . . .” she murmured.

“Love you, too . . .”

****

Lying on the floor beside Norman’s bed, Dipper paged slowly through 3. “Still not finding anything that makes fog . . . There’re a few things that could make people disappear, I guess, but all would leave footprints, I think . . . Guess this must be something new . . .”

The Medium stopped pacing. In fact, he froze entirely. “Something _new_? In Gravity Falls?”

“Well, ye—”

“What about . . . _outside_ of Gravity Falls?”

“Huh?”

Norman spun to look down at his friend. “Think about it!” he said in a rush. “We looked for fogs and disappearances _here_ _in_ _town_. But why couldn’t it’ve happened elsewhere?”

“Well, everything weird seems to center around—”

“What about _Aggie_? What about the _undead_ I met? That was in _Blithe_ _Hollow_?”

{Yeah . . . Yeah! Kooky stuff must happen outside of town!} Detoby realized.

It was almost audible when everything clicked in Dipper’s brain. He sat up excitedly. “We should search for people who disappeared. And in a fog. In, like, the whole state of Oregon. Genius!”

“Y-you think?”

“Absolutely! This—this right here—is why you are on my team! That, and I need you for Detoby to really be on my team. And Detoby rocks.”

{D’aww . . . I’m blushing. I think . . . Am I even capable of blushing?}

Flushed with praise (and maybe the faintest twinge of jealousy), Norman continued, “M-maybe we should narrow the search further? Like, it’s _only_ _kids_ that’ve disappeared.”

Nodding, Dipper agreed, “So we search for kids gone missing in a fog. Good thinking. Excellent. So is this that thing you think you we’re missing?”

“Yes!” Norman exalted. But the exaltation didn’t last long; there was something nagging at him in the back of his head. “No . . . No, there’s still something else . . .”

{Really? What else could there be?}

“I don’t know,” Norman said in exasperation. “If I knew what it is that I _don’t_ know, I would _not_ not know it anymore, wouldn’t I?”

{Uh . . . Yes?}

“Well . . . Keep not thinking about it, I guess,” Dipper encouraged him. “If you have another breakthrough like this one, it could crack the case wide open!”

“I’ll t-try!”

“No. Don’t try.”

“R-right. You know what I meant.”

“You think maybe we should narrow the search further?” Dipper wondered aloud. “To girls? Since the three people who’ve gone missing are all girls.”

{Was that goth—that Ebony—a girl?} Detoby wondered.

“Um . . . Detoby’s right. Are we sure that Ebony goth was a girl, too?” Norman asked uncertainly. “The newspaper didn’t say. I got the impression it even went out of its way not to say.”

“Hmm . . . Maybe not. I don’t know. But boy or girl, it may not really matter,” Dipper declared. “She/He looked like he/she could be a girl, and that might be all that matters to whatever’s taking kids. You see what I mean?”

“Maybe . . . B-but, with only three missing, it could easily be a coincidence that they’re all . . . um, girly in appearance, I g-guess? Girlish? Feminine? I have no idea how to express this idea in a way that doesn’t sound vaguely offensive . . .”

{Do we really have to worry about not offending—}

“Yes, Detoby,” Norman interjected flatly.

{Even though it’s only us in this r—}

“_Yes_, Detoby.”

{Even though—}

“_Yes_, _Detoby_! We should take _all_ reasonable measures to be nice to all people. All the time. Okay? Stick with what you’re good at (fish jokes and cheap puns), and just try not to offend anyone.”

{But I thought I was good at offending people and bad at telling jokes.}

Norman made a gesture of defeat. “Then stick with what you’re _bad_ at.”

Dipper laughed. “Man, I wish I could hear what I’m missing in these conversations.”

“Aggravation. That’s _all_ you’re missing. _Aggravation_. Can we get back to work now?”

Dipper laughed again. Which did help to alleviate Norman’s mood. “Where were we? Oh, yeah. So you think it might not just be . . . girl-looking persons that could disappear?”

“I’m just s-saying it might not necessarily be only them.”

Dipper nodded. “Okay, so we look for kids gone missing during a fog in general . . .”

{Sounds easy enough. How many could there be?}

“Do you have a computer we could use?” the behatted boy continued.

“My Dad’s, maybe?”

But when they descended the stairs, Perry looked mildly surprised to see them. “Your friend’s still here, Norm? It’s after eight. On a school night, too.”

“W-we’ve been working on . . . homework,” his son replied.

Detoby chuckled beside him. {Which is technically true. Devious little minds, I tell you, Elaine.}

{My grandson is no dummy,} she agreed proudly.

“Is it coming along well?” Sandra asked brightly.

Dipper nodded, “We’re making some real progress, I think. Got some good leads.”

“Good for you!”

“But isn’t your family worried about you being out so late?” Perry asked, disapproval inflecting his tone. “What with . . . recent events?”

Dipper’s eyes widened. “Oh, fricative! I forgot to call Stan! He’s probably going nuts!”

With a sigh, Perry heaved himself upright. “C’mon, Tipper—”

“D-Dipper,” Norman corrected him quietly.

“I’ll drive you home, I guess. Someone prob’ly has to.”

Sandra patted her husband’s arm as he went to find his keys. “That’s sweet of you, dear.”

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

Norman protested, “But we’re in the middle of something!”

Dipper shrugged hopelessly. “It’s okay, man. We’ve done a lot today, and . . . Well, what more can we do, really?”

“B-but what about . . . the _next_ person?” the Medium said in an undertone.

Lowering his head, the behatted boy sighed. “What can we do? We don’t know when or where or who it’ll be. We don’t know why. We don’t even know what’s doing it . . . I hate to say it, but . . .”

“There’s nothing we can do tonight . . .” Norman finished unhappily.

“But we know where to start looking tomorrow. We’re _not_ giving this up,” Dipper insisted. “We’re gonna get this S.O.D. and save everybody.”

“Huh?”

Dipper leaned close to whisper, “Son of a ditch,” in Norman’s ear.

Norman snorted, “G-gotcha!” It was funny, yes . . . And Dipper’s breath had tickled his ear. Which made him blush.

From the door, Perry asked, “You coming, Chipper?”

“Coming. And thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow, Norm!”

“Bye! DIPPER!” the boy Medium added emphatically.

****

The ring tone was “Game Time” by Trox and K2. The boy who answered it wore a letterman that barely covered his muskox-sized frame. “Yo!” he shouted into it.

“It is I.”

“Oh, Paulina! How you doing?” he continued to shout. He could only shout. It was his nature.

“My name is _Paul_. You _know_ my name is Paul. My name has _always_ been Paul. Unless you want me to start calling you ‘Brick’ instead of ‘Brock’, you _will_ refer to me as Paul. Actually, no. Scratch that. You will refer to me as ‘_Your_ _Grand_ _Gothness’_ henceforth and forever.”

“Tcha, please, Pauly-boy. You need to untwist those knickergothers.”

“Silence, _Brick_.”

“Ha! Doesn’t really phase me. What d’you think everyone on the team calls me?”

“Something monosyllabic, and hopefully rhyming with Brick. But I’m sure I don’t care. I am merely calling to ensure you and your team are ready for tomorrow.”

“Ready and steady. They won’t even see it coming!”

“Exquisite. See you on the bus.”

“GO WOODBURY!”

“. . . Indeed . . .”

And the call was ended.

****

Dipper pushed the door open and slipped inside. “HEY! I’M HOME!”

From the living room, his sister snarked, “Well, if it isn’t Dipper-Come-Lately. Took your time.”

“Hey, Sis-Sis,” he greeted Mabel. “How you do-OOOOf!” And he faceplanted onto the floor of the living room. “Peh! Is it just me, or is the floor like an inch lower than it should be? And since when’s the carpet white? Did we get new flooring?”

“Gruncle Stan had us spend the whole day cleaning. Don’t you remember? Oh, that’s right!” Mabel mock-recalled. “You weren’t here like at all! Where you even been, Dipstick?”

“Investigating the disappearances,” her brother answered curtly.

“You . . . gadabout, you!” she shot at him.

“I invited you to come, but you’ve got this shrew-butt aversion to my friend for no reason.”

“Vetoed! We do not discuss Flimflam O’Spikehair!”

“Fine. Whatever,” Dipper said sulkily. But eventually, he begrudged, “Why’d Stan have you guys clean all day? I mean, the place has never been this shiny.”

At that moment, Stan made his entrance. Fully-clothed. “Can’t we just have the place look nice every once in a while? I swear, every time I do something, I get the third degree. Everyone all suspicious for no reason . . . Razafrada suspicious kids . . .”

Dipper stared in shock. “You’re still dressed! Were you . . . going out to look for me?”

“Yeeeeeaaaaah . . . That’s what I was doing . . . So where have you been, Dipping Sauce?”

“With my friend. Investigating stuff.”

“Well . . . Next time, give me a call or something, okay? Apparently, kids’ve gone missing. If you do too, who knows how much the state might investigate me. Might even *shudder* audit me.”

“Only girls (or kids who look sorta like girls) have disappeared,” Dipper countered confidently. “So, clearly, I’m in no danger. It’s cool.”

Stan and Mabel exchanged a glance. Then they both burst out laughing as one.

“What?!” Dipper demanded.

Knocking the bill of his great-nephew’s hat, Stan chuckled, “Nothing. You’re just priceless. But seriously; call to update me occasionally, okay?”

“Well . . . Maybe if we had our own cell phones . . .” Mabel suggested.

“Yeah, nice try. Not. Now I’m going out for a bit. Keep everything locked and go to bed at ten—I might not be back by then,” Stan informed them.

“What? Again?” Dipper challenged him.

“Yes, again. For drinks with a friend,” Stan said evasively. “I do have some of those, y’know.”

Crossing his arms suspiciously, the behatted boy stated, “You’ve been acting all suspicious lately. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was _you_ kidnapping all the kids.”

Putting up his hands in mock-surrender, Stan retorted, “You’ve got me! I secretly kidnap goths and brats for slave labor in my sweatshop. Because goths and brats make the hardest-working slaves.”

“Where do you go for real?” Mabel interjected curiously.

“To meet a lady friend.”

“Ha! But seriously.”

“I’m too old for this crap,” Stan muttered. “I’ll see you in the morning. Go to bed at ten.”

After the door had been locked behind their great-uncle, Mabel asked Dipper, “You don’t think he was . . . actually serious about the lady friend, do you?”

“Pfha! Right!”

“Yeah . . . I guess that is kinda hard to believe . . .”

“Soos not stay today?” Dipper asked.

“He said something about a rehearsal at the Corduroys towards six, I think . . .” Mabel recalled. “Any idea what that’s about?”

“None. Soos is an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in stretchy waistbands. Besides the cleaning, how was your day?”

With a shrug, she replied, “Meh.”

“You wanna hear about mine?” her brother asked hopefully. “About the investigation?”

“Fakey was there, and Fakey is vetoed. Now and forever. So no.”

“What if I said I need your help?” Dipper asked humbly.

“I would say ‘Get rid of Fakey, and you got it’, Bro-Bro,” she replied intransigently. “Easy as that. You’d think a smart person like you would see that.”

With a sigh, Dipper rubbed his temples. “Fine. New subject . . .”

****

As Detoby made to depart, Elaine drifted through the front door (literally through it) after him. {Are you sure this is the best time to pay the Multibear a visit? Isn’t it a bit late?}

{I figure it improves my chances of finding him at home.} With a shiver, Jokergeist confessed, {I’m not _wild_ about floating up the mountain all by my onesie in this spine-tingling fog . . . But it just has to be done. The boys _need_ some answers.}

{You think he’ll be in a talkative mood if you wake him?}

Detoby shrugged. {Not sure, but my money’s on him being the understanding type . . . At least, for the kids. I don’t intend to leave until I get some answers, though—and if I know one thing, it’s how to make people willing to do _anything_ to get rid of me. And he can’t kill me, so . . .}

{Heh . . . Well . . .} Elaine sucked on her teeth for a moment, and then finally made herself say, {Be careful all the same. Normy’d be heartbroken if anything happened to you.}

Detoby grinned. {Just the NorMedium?}

{Yes. _Just_ Normy. No one else. Now get going.}

{See you soon, my angel of the stars and moon!}

With a groan, Elaine buried her spectral face in her equally spectral hands. {Just _go_ already!}

****

“You like how my walls are nice and estraight now, mi eStanford?”

“Yeah, I can . . . really see the difference . . .” Stan answered with admirably-faked sincerity. “And you should see the Mystery Shack now. Place is spotless—you could eat off of any part of it at all. Oh, wait! You will tomorrow!”

Esmerelsa blanched. “Eat off of it?”

“See it,” he clarified.

“Really?” she asked excitedly.

“You bet. Just have to drop off the gremlins and get rid of Soos first, but then . . . All ours.”

“We eshould ecelebrate our hard days’ work,” she whispered in his ear.

“By smooching?”

“Al principio . . .”

“I don’t know what that means, but I think I like the sound of it.”

“Si. You will. Now kiss me like you kissed me . . . when we ‘bought’ our eseaplane.”

“I remember that one. Heheheh . . . That was a good one, too. And it went like . . . this . . .”

****

Seven pens lay drained upon the kitchen floor.

One pad of paper had been filled with sketches. It lay discarded among the pens.

The first pictures were of fashionable women’s clothing, graceful animals or flowers, angels, cute boys, palaces, knights, water fountains, fireworks, and more—blended together into a single image or simply sharing the page.

But the contents of the pictures gradually shifted. From the fantasies of a teenage girl to the nightmares of a haunted and broken soul. Tear stains splotched the later ones.

A figure, one that had hidden in the backgrounds of the earlier images like a vulture in a park, crept into prominence. Its face: just a circle; its body: long lines like a scarecrow in an undertaker’s suit. Gowns became rags in its presence. Animals were so drained of life that they became wasted cadavers. Flowers withered. The wings of angels were broken; the faces of boys melted like wax away from bone; ruination fell upon the palaces; knights cut their own throats to fill the basins and the jets of fountains; the fireworks became the explosions of bombs. All things, no matter how beautiful or fantastic, became horrifyingly corrupted. As if the vulture in the park had descended to eat an onlooker’s still-living face.

Only the figure remained uncorrupted. Its shadow was as death. Reaching out like tentacles.

Some pages featured words:

“can’t run”

“OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW OUTSIDE”

“no one to help you no one to save you”

“ALONE ALONE ALONE”

“follows everywhere”

“coming for everyone”

The final image was just the word “NO” scribbled so many times that the page looked black.

When she had finished it, Minion #2 had cowered in the corner furthest from any windows. Wrapped within herself. Rocking in a fetal position. Sobbing and scribbling on the wall

The same thing over and over again. “Daddy’ll come home soon . . .”

But no matter how often she said it, he didn’t come.

No matter how often she tried to call, the phone would not connect.

She was alone . . . So alone . . .

And she could hear the figure from her drawings outside. Looking for a way in. Always looking. But all the lights in the house—all the lights in the world—couldn’t keep it away forever . . .

It was almost a relief when the lights flickered and died.

“D-Daddy’s . . . not coming home . . .”

Could the locks on the doors keep it out? Did she hear it even now at the kitchen door?

**LONELINESS**

“W-what do you w-want?”

**TAKE AWAY**

She sobbed.

**OPEN**

And, because she couldn’t fight it anymore, she staggered upright and did.

She didn’t scream when she saw it, and so no neighbors looked out their windows. No one saw the slow flash of light.


	13. Chapter 13

Dressed all in sequined white, he threw the doors open. “Lady Mabelladonna, I am home now!” he called to his lady love.

His voice, his eyes, his very being smoldered as hot as the sun he could never again look upon. For he was . . . a vampire! A goth vampire! Beautiful and dark. Except he wore white. It was his color.

“And I am looking so tall and strapping!” he announced. “And also, my suitcoat . . . opened?”

His perfect hair whooshed in the doorway where he stood—the sparkliest part of sparkly him.

Dressed all in sequined black, she turned. She swooned demurely. “Ooh! Master Gideon! Ooh!”

But he moved with the speed of a vampire and caught her gently. He swept his white cape around her, lifted her in his strong arms. He was tall and strapping and had very strong arms.

“Let’s do it . . .” she whispered. “Whatever ‘it’ is . . . We should google what ‘it’ is . . .”

“Yes. And I will leave my cape on.”

She gazed longingly up at him.

But before all the bosoms could start heaving or all the suits become seersucker within a twenty-mile radius as a result of the intensity of their joint googling of what “it” would actually entail, someone walked in on them.

“Ahem. Do ya mind?” he asked over his shoulder. “We’re kinda tryin’ to figure out how to have a moment exactly.”

**LONELINESS**

“What?”

Lady Mabelladonna pushed out of his strong arms. Which were not so strong anymore? “Who would want to have a moment with you? I don’t love you. No one does.”

“B-but . . .”

“You are not really tall and strapping.”

Heartbreak.

Rage.

“This is all your doin’, Dipper Pines!”

He spun, but it was not her meddling brother that he saw. It was a hand as pale as death, reaching down to grab him by the face! Cold! Papery! He couldn’t see! He struggled! But the grip was tight against his face!

“Get off!”

Gideon fell out of bed.

It took a full minute for him to realize that what he was trying to pry off his face was not a hand, but the book he had been reading when he fell asleep (Ooh! Master Vampire! Ooh! by Anne Lice). Probably it had smooshed against his face as he dozed off. And then, as his face cream dried, the pages had been cemented there. It took him another careful minute of peeling to extract the book without removing any of his widdle face.

“What a bizarre nightmare . . . It leaves me all beflustered in the head . . .” Gideon rubbed his pudgy temples. “Maybe goin’ back to sleep will get this headache to go away . . .”

Before he did, he looked once longingly out the window—looked in the direction that Mabel lay. Sweet, perfect, easily-manipulated-by-her-loathsome-family Mabel . . .

“Soon, my dark pearl . . . Soon we shall be—what in the Mississippi Delta is that?”

He could’ve sworn he had seen something standing in the fog outside. Something or someone. But when he looked closer, there was nothing. Perhaps it had just been a trick of the eyes . . .

Gideon climbed back into bed. In widdle ol’ his case, this wasn’t a figurative expression.

****

A table. Only two places set at it.

“Are we having dinner?” Norman asked.

Dipper was at his side. Bowler hat, trenchcoat, umbrella on his arm. He twirled his mustache. “Indubitably, old bean.”

“Where are the candles?”

Dipper opened the umbrella and set it vertically on the table. Warm sunlight poured out from it, covering the table and the two of them. “We don’t need candles. We have a sunbrella.”

Norman blinked. “Sunbrella? Wait . . . I know that word from somewhere . . .”

They were sitting now. Two waiters moved around them—a man and a girl. The Butler and the Babysitter. Arranging silver plates.

Shoes were on Dipper’s plate. Two different girls’ shoes and a man’s shoes. Muddy soles. Arranged around a fourth, nearly invisible shoe. Clean soles. Dipper began eating.

“Why? How?”

A cellphone was on Norman’s plate. The screen still blinked that same text message up at him. < help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >

“What does it mean?”

“Ask the chef,” the Babysitter-waitress replied. Pointed into the fog.

There was the girl with the curly hair. Chef’s hat and blank expression. The blonde girl stood beside her. Apron and blank expression. The goth beside her. Ladle in hand and blank expression.

“What does the text mean?”

The girl with curly hair opened her mouth, but a hand reached out of the fog and pulled her away before she could say anything. A slow flash of light. She was gone.

“Why doesn’t whatever took you leave footprints?”

The blonde girl opened her mouth, but the same thing happened. She was gone.

“Why did it take you? Is it just because you look like you could be a girl? There’s gotta be more to it than that, right?”

The goth opened his/her mouth, but the same thing happened again. She/He was gone.

Norman looked down at his plate. “Tal mn nfac? T-a-l-m-n-n-f-a-c? Towel . . . mean? Talmon? Tell Min? N fac? No FAQ? Fact? Fax? Nef ace? Axe? A.C.?”

An indistinct voice whispered behind him, “You’re missing it.”

Somehow, Norman knew it was the fourth victim. He was too ashamed to look around.

A girl’s voice, maybe? “It took me because you’re missing the obvious.”

“W-what took you? Please tell us so we can help you!” he begged.

“You already know.”

Hitting the table, Norman shouted, “But I don’t know!”

No response. A slow flash of light behind him. The fourth victim was gone. Taken.

It was circling them now. At a distance. Invisible in the fog. Not quite a shape; almost a shadow. Looking for the next victim, perhaps. They seemed to be safe under the sunbrella, but what about everyone else? Who else could fit under the sunbrella?

Dipper finished the last shoe and began twirling his moustache in satisfaction.

Norman looked at him desperately. “What am I missing?”

“A name and a face to put with the thing in the fog. The thing that has a hand in all this.”

“A name?” That was a reminder. “What _is_ your real name?”

“Sir Basil Dippingsauce. Old bean. What what? But I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

A shake of the head. “That’s not your name.”

“The man you’re looking for may be inhuman now. Wearing a human mask. Or maybe human, but wearing an inhuman mask. Like the Butler said.”

Crossing around the table. “And w-what if . . . you are the m-man I’m looking for?” Peeling off that stupid fake mustache.

Dipper opened his mouth to respond.

But the moustache started talking all one its own. Shouting. {Bugaboo?! We got real trouble!}

Grandma was sitting at the table. {Normy? Normy, dear, wake up! This is important!}

It wasn’t a table, though; it was a bed. And Norman was lying on it while Detoby and Elaine leaned over it anxiously. There was no Dipper, no dinner, and no sunbrella—just Norman’s dark room. And a lingering sense of being cheated yet again by the universe. Jerk that it is.

{You awake yet?! This is serious—bombshell serious!}

{For once, I think I agree with fishlips,} Elaine concurred worriedly.

“W-wha?”

{How many fingers am I holding up?} the Jokergeist demanded.

“You’re . . . holdin’ up your rubber chicken? I’s like . . .” Norman glanced at his clock. “5:23 n’th morning, guys.”

{But he’s gone!}

A jolt of panic went through the Medium. “Dipper?! Dipper’s gone?!”

Detoby was completely taken aback. {What? No.}

“Then . . . who?”

{The Multibear! He’s gone—just gone! Even his cave is gone!}

Norman blinked. None of this was making sense. “What?”

Elaine interjected in an only slightly-calmer voice, {Detoby went to go see him last night—went to ask if he had any idea what was going on down here in the valley.}

{But he’s gone!} the Jokergeist burst out.

“Maybe . . . he was out?”

{Then he packed up his cave, too, because it wasn’t there anymore!}

“M-maybe . . . you missed it in the fog?” Norman suggested hopefully.

Detoby shook his spectral head. {I shimmied over every inch of the mountain—_every single inch_, I tell you, Bugaboo—and it’s _gone_. I found where it’s supposed to be, but . . . the cave there only went about ten feet into the mountain. That . . . tingle or whatever? _Gone_. Just . . . gone . . .}

“B-but . . . Why?”

{I don’t know,} the Jokergeist confessed quietly. Fearfully. {But I . . . I suspect that whatever’s taking children had something to do with it.}

Norman gulped. “H-how? He was the freaking Multibear!”

{I know, right? If it can get him—or _hims_, I guess . . .}

{Normy,} Elaine spoke up quietly. {I’m worried this might be more than you can handle. I think you and your friend shouldn’t wander around on your own anymore. And maybe you should stop investigating altogether. This thing—whatever it is—is clearly dangerous. I don’t like the idea of you two going out and looking for it.}

For a while, the boy Medium made no response. Eventually, he cleared his throat. “If we st-stop, it’ll still keep taking kids.”

{But, Normy—}

“And w-we’re going to start today with some research online, I think. So we won’t be outside.”

{Normy—}

“M-maybe we can figure out what it is that way. What it w-wants. How to st-stop it.”

Elaine tried again. {Normy—}

“Besides,” her grandson continued doggedly. “If it could g-get the Multibear (which we’re not sure it actually did), how will staying inside p-protect us?”

She had no answer for this. {Please,} she begged. {I’m scared for you.}

“S-so am I. But . . . I’m the only one who can do this. W-well, Dipper too,” he added. Maybe almost smiling as he said it. “Dipper and me—sorry, I—are the only ones who can st-stop it, I think. That’s part of who we are. And we can’t let b-being scared change who we are, right?”

His grandmother pursed her transparent lips. {Using my words against me is cheating.}

Norman gave her a small smile and a small shrug.

{When I said that, I didn’t know I was encouraging you to rob a dead man, break into a cemetery and a library, and then face down a hoard of zombies and a vengeful witch’s ghost.}

“Grandma,” Norman protested.

{Fine. A few remorseful undead and the poltergeist of a frightened girl,} she corrected herself. {The point is, I was merely trying to give you some good advice for life in general. Using my own words against me so you can do something dangerous is cheating.}

“We’ll be c-careful. I promise.”

At the window, peering out into the fog, Detoby sighed. {I knew you wouldn’t quit . . . I can’t decide if that makes me proud of you, Bugaboo, or really frustrated with you . . .}

“You’ll still help us, right?”

The Jokergeist smiled ruefully. {I am slightly offended you would even ask.}

{Is there anything I can do?} Elaine offered.

“Well . . . Right now, you could let me get some more sleep?” Norman suggested. “I don’t have to get up for over an hour . . . And then, maybe try not to worry?”

{You have no idea how hard you make not worrying, Normy.}

“Heh. Sorry, Grandma . . .”

They left him alone after that, and he lay back in the dark. He didn’t fall back asleep, of course; he was an insomniac with a genuine reason to worry. But at least it kept his mind occupied until it was time to prepare for school.

****

Taking his sister by the shoulder, Dipper shook her gently. “Hey, Mabel? Time to get up.”

She rolled over slightly with a groan.

“You okay?” Dipper asked worriedly. “Not feeling sick again, are you?”

“No . . . Wha time ‘sit?”

“Like . . . quarter after seven?”

She groaned again, but faster this time as she sat up. “Blaaarg! Overslept! Can’t believe—gar!”

“What’s the matter? I thought you said you’re not sick.”

“I’m not!” Mabel insisted. “No real headache, no blah-feeling, no weird nightmares! I just have like _no_ _time_ to get ready for school.”

Her brother pointed out, “We’ve got half an hour.”

“Less than I thought! Waddles, fetch my shoes!” She tried to leap for the bathroom, but her muscles were so stiff it turned into a skipping hobble for the bathroom. “Gaa! And I’m exhausted from cleaning yesterday! If _someone_ had been here to help, maybe my muscles wouldn’t feel like pain.”

“Maybe your muscles wouldn’t feel like pain if you wore clothing that didn’t weigh as much as you do,” Dipper countered. “Cleaning that sweater every night has like doubled the size of my biceps. Seriously. Look at these guns.” And, because he was male and talking about his biceps, he rolled up his sleeves and started flexing. “Bang! Good thing I have a right to bare arms, because I don’t have a license to keep these bad boys concealed. That’d be a real crime.”

Mabel groaned yet again. “Oh my gosh . . .”

Her brother grinned. “C’mon, that was a good one! Admit it.”

“You gonna stand there and watch while I get dressed, or what?” she snapped.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it and continued, “Maybe you should just go with something quick and easy? Something like you normally wear?”

“Still wearing the goth stuff!” she shouted through the door. “Just . . . maybe without the makeup today!”

“Still? Don’t you think . . . y’know . . . that you’re back to normal yet? Normal for you?”

Inside their room, Mabel stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. But she didn’t have time to think this morning; she pulled on her goth regalia. “Maybe this is the new normal!”

Unseen by her, Dipper made a face. “Well . . . If that’s what you want, I guess . . . But it doesn’t strike me as being . . . you. Y’know? You’re not a dark, depressed person. You’re bright and cheerful—down right annoying about it, even.”

“And you’re dorky and dopey. What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying the real you . . . isn’t like this. The real you is colorful and random and wants to be friends with everyone—help everyone,” he added emphatically. He was leading into the question, “So . . . Have you changed your mind yet about helping with my investigation?”

“Have you got rid of Fake-Psychic McLiarwhooshhairbutt yet? No?” she demanded petulantly.

Dipper made the same face again. His first impulse was (as always) to defend his friend, but he knew better. Instead, he took a breath and said, “People have disappeared, Mabel. Three people. And there was probably a fourth disappearance last night . . . I’m trying to stop them.”

His sister had no riposte to that.

“I need your help on this, Mabel. And I need Norman’s, too.”

“But he’s—”

“Can you just trust me on this one, Mabel? Please? I was right about the first Norman.”

His sister bit back an angry reply.

“More or less,” Dipper conceded in an undertone. “Anyway . . . Just think about it. Please?”

“I . . . have to get ready!” she snapped. “Waddles! My shoes! What am I paying you for?!”

Her brother smiled a little to himself as he went downstairs for breakfast. It wasn’t a “yes”, but it was also not a categorical “no” anymore. This was even more progress.

****

Following Norman to the door, Detoby asked, {How do you reckon Dipper will take the news? Seems he and the Multibear were chums.}

“Not sure, but—”

“Hey, son!” Perry called.

The Medium froze. He almost cringed, even. “Y-yeah, Dad?”

“Wait a little bit, okay? I’m, um, gonna drop off you and your sister today.”

“Er . . . It’s okay. I d-don’t mind walk—”

“Norman,” Perry interrupted him with finality. “I’m dropping you off today.”

Elaine glanced over at her son, then back to her grandson. {That’s . . . a little odd . . .}

“Yeah . . .”

A few minutes later (once Courtney was completely ready), the three Babcock s got into the car. Detoby followed, of course. Sandra waved goodbye from the front door like a typical mom.

Clearing his throat, Perry addressed his children, “So, um . . . Seems there’ve been some . . . disappearances in town. Three kids.”

“Four if you count like reliable cell service,” Courtney groused down at her inoperable phone.

“You two . . . noticed anything strange?” Perry continued.

Norman swallowed. His sister replied, “At this school? Strange doesn’t even begin to cover it. There was that random dance party for no reason in the middle of lunch yesterday. The like civil war with the goths. Plus the—”

Perry interjected. “But you haven’t noticed anyone following you?” He glanced back at them via the rearview mirror. “What about you, Norman?”

His son looked up long enough to shake his head once.

“Okay. Good . . . Um . . . Because I’m worried about the both of you, I want you both to come straight back home after school.”

“But Dad!”

“Preferably not alone.”

“What? Bring my friends over?” Courtney asked disbelievingly. “Can’t I just go to their place?”

“Only if you’re in a group and not wandering around town with them.” Looking pointedly into the rearview mirror again, he said, “That goes double for you, Norman.”

“O-okay.”

“Shipper can come over if he likes—”

“Dipper,” Norman murmured in protest.

“—but I’m not comfortable with my kids being out while all these kidnappings are going on. Until the police know what sorta monster is responsible for this and put a stop to it . . . well . . .”

Courtney and Norman (and Detoby) were silent in the back seat.

“You get what I’m saying?” Perry asked them quietly, pulling up outside the school. “I’m saying be safe . . . I, er, love you. Have a good day.”

Courtney leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Love you, too, Daddy.”

Norman nodded. “Y-yeah!” And he slipped out the door.

{Rather touching,} Detoby commented as they filed through the crowd.

“Rather weird . . .”

{He’s your pappy, Bugaboo. He worries about you because he loves you,} the Jokergeist stated knowingly. {Even if he only says it rarely. It’s just a father thing.}

“R-right . . . Let’s . . . go find Dipper,” Norman changed the subject.

****

As a janitor used his key to open Mabel’s locker, he grinned down at Gideon Gleeful. “You are just so adorable, leaving her flowers every day.” With a sigh, he said, “Ah, young love . . .”

“Puppy love is the only kind that lasts,” Gideon said precociously (despite his black leather and chains of skull-shaped links—a goth look both he and a decent portion of the student body was experimenting with since Mabel’s unintentional rise to prominence).

“Do you need anything else?”

“I should have everything, thank you. Why don’t you go back about your business? I’m sure you have a lot of important work to do. I’ll just call if I need any little thing,” Gideon ordered charmingly. Whatever one could say against him (and there was a lot), he knew how to be charming.

“Right you are!”

Gideon stood alone in the hallway now, carefully cramming Mabel’s locker full of black roses. And then, he felt . . . something . . . Something like a shiver in his mind.

He glanced to his left and to his right—up and down the hallway. There was nothing there. Nothing and no one. Except . . . when he turned back to the locker, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of someone or something in dark clothes out of the corner of his eye . . . Someone or something vaguely familiar, like a dream . . .

He tried to focus on it, but it seemed to slip away from his sight whenever he looked its way. Eventually, he decided to ignore it; he had a locker to romantically stuff to bursting.

****

Remove the Death Card. Shuffle the deck. Stand in the circle. Launch the cards.

Just like always.

And yet not a single card landed within the circle; not a single card landed face up. There was no hint as to the whereabouts of La Contable.

Unlike always. She was the only target the cards had ever been unable to find. The only one.

The man with hard, sharp features like a knife—the (extremely) professional killer that others called “El Condor”—just sat in the middle of the circle and buried his face in his hands.

“Ehehehehehe?” The soft, round man patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“Si. It is . . . frustrating. Days wasted waiting for the cards to reveal where the woman has gone. What if the cards no longer function? How will we find people? Our reputation . . . our profession . . .”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si. If you wish,” El Condor sighed as he rose from the bathroom floor. “We have nothing else better to do today, it seems. But what remains to be seen in this city? Have we not already been to every museum in this city?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si. We will shop if you like. You know I cannot deny you anything, mi amigo . . .”

****

“Morning, Mister Pi—”

Stan spun around with his suavest of smiles. “Soos! I’m glad you’re here!”

Soos stopped short, too surprised to be overjoyed at this. “You . . . are?”

“Indeed, I am. You are the perfect man for the job I need done. Uniquely qualified.”

Buoyed up by pride, Soos saluted. “What do you need done, sir?”

Putting an arm around his employee’s broad shoulders, Stan confided to him, “A Gabba, Soos. We need a taxidermied Gabba for the new attraction. The problem is, I don’t have all the parts we need to . . . um imitate our own Gabba. So I need you to check some of the shops in Eugene for Gabbas.”

“You’re . . . trusting me to find attractions for the Shack? You trust me that much?”

“To find a Gabba? You bet I do. You’ve proven yourself more than capable of that,” Stan said with a wide smile.

Perhaps that should have tipped off Soos that something wasn’t quite right here. But Soos was, by nature, a trusting and “face value” sort of person; besides, here was his long-wished-for opportunity to prove himself. He saluted again. “I shall succeed, or die trying!”

“Well . . . You don’t have to _die_ if you can’t find one,” Stan assured him. “Just . . . try your best. Oh, you better get going if you want to beat the rush; remember that Thursday is the busiest day for taxidermists.”

“Yessir, Mister Pines, sir!” And Soos turned to charge back to his truck through the haze. He had vanished in under a minute.

“Heh heh . . .” Stan chuckled dryly. “Sucker . . .”

Not too long after this, a newish car pulled up to the Mystery Shack. Inside it, Esmerelsa was striving valiantly to take deep, calming breaths. “You can do this . . .” she told herself in Spanish. “There will be no El Chupacabra . . . There will be no filth or odd angles . . . There will be no children . . . Just you and Stanford easing into a new life together . . . You can deal with anything unclean or askew or young slowly . . . You can do this . . . You can do this . . .”

Stan stepped off the porch to greet her—to gallantly open the car door for, even—with a wide but fixed smile. He, too, was striving valiantly to take deep, calming breaths. “You can do this . . .” he told himself. “The Shack’s cleaner than it’s ever been . . . Everything’s at ninety degree angles . . . She knows to expect taxidermied displays . . . No one else is around to complicate matters . . . Just you and Esmerelsa easing into a new life together . . . You’ll deal with complications later . . . You can do this . . . You can do this . . .”

When he opened the door for her, she forced herself to bounce out. “Mi eStanford!”

“Esmerelsa!”

They kissed. That part was easy for them. Somehow, it got them through the door.

Stan eventually had to pull away for breath, and then routine took over for him. “W-welcome to the Mystery Shack!” he gasped. “Be amazed and befuddled at the secrets of the world! Only ten dollars per tour!”

“Ten dollars?”

“Er . . .” He blushed and muttered, “Force of habit. Naturally it’s ffff . . . It’s ffffrrr . . . FFFRRR . . .” When he proved incapable of saying the word “free”, he cleared his throat and said, “Just come in.”

Treading carefully over the threshold, Esmerelsa tried not to notice the few uneven floorboards, the slightly crooked photos on the wall, and the dodo in the corner. She really did try. And she managed not to let them register on her face—a testament to the depth of her feelings for Stan.

Before entering the museum, he licked his lips nervously. “Do you like it so far?”

“Si!”

“We’re about to enter the museum portion. I, uh . . . I rearranged everything in there yesterday. Should be nice and straight now.”

Genuinely touched, she smiled up at him. “You did that for me?”

“Anything for you.” He turned and made a wide gesture at the exhibits. “Be amazed!”

The smile became a rictus. The room certainly did amaze her; monstrosities and mismatched body parts everywhere. If the thought of touching something dead had not been so horrifying to her, she would have set about sorting the parts according to the animal they originally came from (which would, naturally, be arranged alphabetically).

Seeing how perfectly still she stood, Stan asked again, “Do you like it?”

Esmerelsa was so tense, it took an effort to pry her lips apart. “Si! eShow me . . . more!”

And so, the parade of horrors began.

****

Picking up a needle and some thread, Dipper asked, “So what was it you needed to tell me?”

Norman gulped. They hadn’t had time to talk in the hall earlier, and he had been dreading how he would break the news to his friend all through the earlier class period.

{Maybe just . . . come right out and say it?} Detoby suggested beside them.

“Y-yeah . . . Um . . . Last night, after you l-left . . .” Norman faltered. “Detoby went to try and speak with the M-Multibear. Ask him (or hims) if he had any idea what’s going on down here, y’know?”

Dipper stopped. “Why didn’t I think of that? Gah! It’s such an obviously good idea, too!”

“W-well . . . It m-might not’ve mattered if you had. He says—Detoby says—he—the Multibear—w-wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there?” Dipper repeated questioningly. He had heard the intonation on that statement, and it worried him. “Like . . . was _out_ hunting or doing other Multibear-Medium-type things?”

“Wasn’t there like . . . his cave w-wasn’t even there anymore.”

Dipper furrowed his brow (which Norman found inexplicably cute—a distraction for which he silently berated himself during so serious a discussion). Finally, Dipper asked, “Is he—no, sorry. _Detoby_, are you _sure_ you looked in the right place?”

{Tell him I looked in _every_ place,} the Jokergeist said patiently.

“He’s sure. He told me he looked over every inch of the mountain. He found where the cave’s supposed to be, but . . . It’s only about ten or fifteen feet deep,” the Medium explained.

“But . . . why would he leave now?” Hurt inflected Dipper’s voice.

{Tell him I don’t think the Multibear just up and moved.}

“Detoby th-thinks that . . . Well . . . Whatever’s taking kids might have something to do with it,” the Medium explained uneasily

Dipper furrowed his brow again. Norman silently berated himself again. Dipper bit his lip. Norman was louder in silently berating himself.

{I don’t _know_ that it happened that way,} Detoby clarified. {But . . . I’d be lying if I said I didn’t suspect that . . .}

“You think it like k-kidnapped him (or hims), too?” Norman asked. “But how? He’s a Multibear!”

Though he looked pale, Dipper declared, “I beat the Multibear. I almost killed him once. For real. So it’s not _impossible_ . . . Just, sorta _inconceivable_ . . .”

“That why he calls you ‘Warrior’?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” Forcing a confident smile, Dipper said, “So no need to worry. Our team’s got someone who’s even tougher than the Multibear: me.”

In spite of himself, Norman snorted. Detoby, for his part, laughed out loud.

“You don’t believe me? I will arm wrestle you. Right _here_, right _now_.”

{Regular big six, isn’t he?}

Norman laughed. “Is that what you’ll say if . . . whatever it is comes after us, too?”

Grinning, the behatted boy nodded. “That’s _exactly_ what I’ll say. Then it’ll turn and run in fear from Dipper Pines, Manliest of Warriors. And we’ll track it, thrash it, and save everyone.”

“So you . . .” Some of the anxiousness returned to Norman’s voice. “You think h-he’s okay?”

“He better be. If he isn’t, whatever took him is gonna _pay_,” Dipper vowed quietly. “Nobody messes with my friends. So, here’s the plan: as soon as school gets out, we’re going back to your place to research. Just like we said. We need to know what we’re up against, and we need to know it now.”

Norman grumbled, “Being in school now is such a waste of time . . .”

“Tell me about it. Once we know that, we are so gonna find it and put the smack down on it. Maces (or an appropriate weapon) will be hitting faces (or an appropriate weak spot).”

{Hard to imagine a mace to the face would not suffice. Sufface, rather,} the Jokergeist quipped with a honk of his horn. {When in a tight space, just brandish a mace!}

Norman snorted before transmitting that to Dipper, who nodded sagaciously. “Truer words were never spoken.”

The teacher passed by, so both boys had to focus on their sewing for a moment. But after that, Detoby requested, {Bugaboo, ask him if he’s heard about any other disappearances . . . Because I spy about five empty desks in here . . .}

“Nothing specific,” Dipper replied once this had been put to him. “My other class had like about the same amount of absents . . .”

“You d-don’t think . . . All of them at once?” Norman whispered fearfully.

Sensibly, Dipper shook his head. “I think parents might be having their kids stay at home. They’re probably worried, y’know? I would be.”

{As Bertie-boy would say, ‘Amen and brush your teeth’.}

“Hmm . . . My Dad _did_ insist on driving Courtney and me to school. Said we have to come straight home after, too . . .” Confusion crossed the Medium’s face. “You don’t think that means no one was kidnapped last night, do you?”

“Hopefully it does . . .” Dipper said in an unhopeful tone of voice. “But . . .”

“We need to know who,” Norman declared. “We need to know everything we can.”

“Absolutely,” Dipper agreed. “It could be important. Help us recognize a pattern . . . The best way is to maybe look for groups of teachers talking together. That’s how I heard about the others.”

As an idea occurred to him, Norman brightened, “What about the office? And Detoby could go listen for us! No one would know he’s there!”

{I . . . am not keen on the idea of leaving you two alone,} Detoby stated seriously.

“Alone? We’re in a classroom full of people! We will be _all_ day!”

{Okay . . .} the Jokergeist relented. {But if you vanish while I’m gone, your Grandmother will probably find a way to disembowel me. I happen to like my bowels where they are.}

“I will do everything I can to prevent your bowels being moved.”

Dipper snorted as Detoby drifted out of the classroom. “You have no idea how funny some of the things you say sound. Especially since I don’t know the context.”

“Yeah, well . . . Your face is funny since I . . . don’t know the context,” Norman retorted.

“Really? Weak.”

“Sh-shut up.”

****

“And that, my dear senorita, concludes our tour of the mysterious and strange.” With a flourish, Stan opened the door to the gift shop. “I always end by herding people into here, like the slavering money cattle they are, where they have to pay a two-souvenir minimum.”

“Very . . . clever . . .” Esmerelsa said shakily.

“Something wrong? You look a little pale.”

“Just . . . need to esit down . . . for a esecond . . .” There had been so many disproportionate body parts . . . The horror . . . The horror! “Maybe I have not been drinking enough water . . .”

“Do you not like the Shack?” Stan asked painedly.

“Si! Si! It is espectacular!” she lied quickly. “I just am not feeling eso well today. You keep me up too late,” she added teasingly.

He smiled. “Hmm . . . Not all that sorry . . .”

“You get me esome water, maybe?”

“Sure thing.”

As he walked toward the kitchen, she let all her revulsion out at once—a creeped out shudder that sent her vibrating across the floor like an unbalanced washing machine. “Puuuuuaaaaaagggggggh!”

And that brought her face to face with Waddles.

She stared down at the pig in shocked disbelief. The pig stared up at her in friendly confusion. Several tense seconds ticked by. And then, as Mabel had trained him to do to strangers, he sat and offered her his hoof to shake. When it touched her leg, Esmerelsa leapt straight up onto the counter with a scream. “AY CERDO!”

Waddles went running just as Stan came running. The resulting collision was predictably hilarious, with Stan being laid out flat and the glass of water arcing magnificently through the air. Most of it splashed against an open package of Grow Monsters (The Monsters that Grow with H2O!) which . . . expanded by a miniscule amount. Those so-called toys are actually a bigger scam than Stan himself—hence their location in the Shack’s gift shop.

“What’s the matter?!” Stan asked from the floor.

“HAY UN CERDO EN SU CASA!”

“Uh . . . Mi casa, su casa?” Stan tried.

“There is _a pig_ in your house!”

“Oh. That.”

“Why is there a pig in your house?!”

“Frankly, I wish I could answer that.”

Flabbergasted, Esmerelsa faltered, “You . . . do not know why there is a pig in your house?”

Pushing himself upright, Stan said, “Well, yes and no. It’s Mabel’s pet. My great-niece’s.”

“You let a pig live in the house?” Esmerelsa demanded unbelievingly.

“I put it outside once, and Mabel almost disowned me. He did almost get eaten, I guess . . .” Stan conceded. “You want to come down from there? He’s actually pretty clean. She washes him often.”

Pointing behind him, Esmerelsa asked, “And what about el cabro?”

Stan looked around to see the goat walking through the door. It went “Ma-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!”

“Gompers . . . I’m . . . actually not sure how he keeps getting back into the house. He’s not mine. Go on, you! Hya! Out of my house!” And he shooed it away from the post cards before it could begin eating them.

“eSo . . . you do not know why there is un cabro in your house?”

“Why? Probably to try and eat things. Like our cans. How? That one I couldn’t say. It’s not like there’s a goat-sized hole in the walls anywhere . . .”

Esmerelsa slumped into a sitting position. Kids she thought she could handle—for her eStanford, she could have maybe adapted to them. Possibly. Even though kids are messy and noisy and smelly and bacteria vectors worse than a public drinking fountain. And the displays were horrifying, but perhaps gradually over time, she could grow accustomed to them. Or convince her eStanford to destroy them. But apig without respect for personal space? An interloping goat who could come and go with impunity? How could she possibly live in a house with farmyard animals?

“You okay, mi Esmerelsa?” Stan asked worriedly. “You look even paler than before . . .”

Before she could answer, there was a ring at the bell. Some retired tourists stood outside.

Stan was on the verge of turning them away when Esmerelsa laid a hand on his shoulder. “Go. They are necessary for your business. Rob them blind. I will just take a esecond to esit in the kitchen.”

“You’re sure?”

“Si.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Take it all from them.” And then she staggered away.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Mystery Shack! I am honest Stan, and today—”

Esmerelsa turned into the kitchen, and slumped against the wall. “How am I to not go insane? Why did I think this would work?” she demanded of herself in Spanish. “Even back in Colombia . . . this was a problem for us . . .”

Dejectedly, she looked around the kitchen. It had been cleaned recently, but the cleaning was (and this was a generous assessment from her) amateurish. Like it had been cleaned by little girls.

“I could . . . It would take my mind off of things, I suppose . . .”

****

“Where is everybody today?” Grenda wondered, staring around the lunchroom.

“By my calculation, roughly one-fifth of the student body is absent,” Candy approximated.

Grenda gasped. “Why? Do you think . . . Did all of them disappear last night, too?”

Mabel, in her goth finery (minus makeup and accessories), looked down at her tray of food.

“It seems unlikely. Logistically speaking,” Candy ventured.

The larger girl nodded. “Logistics. You can’t argue with logistics.”

Clearing her throat, Mabel said, “There’s probably only been one disappearance. That’s been the . . . whatchamacallit? The mow. Everyone else’s parents are probably having them stay home.”

“Can they do that? Like, legally, I mean?” Grenda asked.

“I don’t think most parents care right now.”

Grenda considered that. “My mom did say she’s going to pick me up from school—that I have to wait for her. She like has never done that.”

Candy tapped the table in thought. “Whoever or whatever is taking kids has really cast a shadow on this town . . . How is Dipper’s investigation going? Is he close to stopping it?”

Mabel pushed her food away. She didn’t feel like eating anymore. “I don’t know . . .”

“You don’t?”

“He’s still working with Fakey over me,” Mabel declared flatly.

Candy and Grenda exchanged a nervous look.

“He wants me to work with them both. As if I need another fake psychic obsessing over me,” Mabel continued derisively. “Least of all one that . . . is such a bad liar . . .”

“This sounds a little like a movie. Like a cop has to trust an honest con man to stop a murderer.”

“This is not a movie, Grenda.”

“Or like Revengers,” Candy mused. “Remember how Raijin, Major Washington, and Titaniumguy all inexplicably hated each other, but eventually gained a grudging respect for each other? And then a friendship for each other?”

“This is not a movie, Candy,” Mabel repeated.

Grenda looked thoughtful. “Who’s who of those three?”

“If I’m not Titaniumguy, I’m never speaking to either of you again,” Mabel interjected. “I make my own freaking power sweaters. Shezow!”

Candy laughed. Grenda laughed. Eventually, Mabel laughed, too.

“Remember when it was just stupid stuff like this we’d talk about?” Grenda sighed. “Not about personal trials or what the goths wanted or kids disappearing or any crap like that?”

“We are growing up a lot this . . . past few weeks,” Candy observed with a sagacious nod. “There have been some serious things to deal with.”

“But I don’t want us to deal with serious things!” Grenda protested. “We’re still only thirteen!”

Mabel looked away. It was true. They shouldn’t have to deal with such things. But as long as the disappearances continued, they wouldn’t have a choice . . .

She sighed. She was going to have to speak with her brother after school . . .

****

Few things are more disconcerting than having a head suddenly pop out of a wall beside you. Any head, really, would be disconcerting. But if that head looks like Detoby’s, it is doubly disconcerting. And if that head is grinning manically as it says, {Peekaboo, Bugaboo!}, it is triply disconcerting. It might, in fact, even represent some sort of quantum-hyper-disconcertion that most freaky physicists currently believe only exists in dimensions 7 through 11, and 21 (for reasons currently not understandable).

Either way, in the middle of talking about some cheat codes to Sugar Rush, Norman freaked out. “BWAH!” This caused Dipper to freak out and spill some of his lunch (maybe risotto, maybe caramel pudding?). “What the heck, man?!”

“Detoby!” the Medium burst out. “Jeez! You scared the crap out of me!”

{Heheheheh! You should see your face!}

“That’s not funny! Why would you even do that?! Jerk.”

{Just checking on you two,} the Jokergeist tried to say placatingly. He was ineffectual about it, though; he kept grinning as he spoke.

Dipper, now that he had calmed down, focused on the same part of the wall as his friend. “Detoby. You learn anything, then?”

{Nada. At least, nada that’s useful. Plenty of juicy gossip about the teachers and staff, though. Let me tell you, this place has so many factions and possible love affairs going on . . . The science teacher might just have some chemistry with the art teacher, if you know what I’m saying. But it can never be. They’re both on opposite sides of a new policy about vending—}

“Detoby, concentrate,” Norman broke in. “Did anyone disappear?”

{Oh. Not that I heard,} the Jokergeist answered carefully. {But there have been so many parents pulling their kids out today, that the secretaries are still processing the absences. According to the secretaries, the place is a madhouse.}

After being brought up to speed, Dipper pursed his lips. “Hmm . . . So as we suspected . . .”

“T-too much to hope that there really wasn’t a disappearance?” Norman asked.

“Probably . . . Well, until we get more information, we’ll just go straight to the research,” Dipper declared. “We do what we can until we can do more, right?”

Norman smiled. “P-positive thinking.”

“Exactly.”

“Detoby, can you go eavesdrop on more gossip? See if anything else develops?”

{Well, if you _insist_ . . . I _guess_ I could do that . . .} the Jokergeist agreed with mock reluctance. {But as a _personal_ _favor_, you understand. Not like I’m _living_ to know more about anything or anything. Tootaloo, Bugaboo!}

****

Very few people knew about the secret room under the cafeteria. Even fewer were permitted into the private dining room located therein. It was in this dining room (known as “Le Clique”) that the cream (of the cream [of the crop (of the elite)]) of William Henry Harrison Middle and High School’s student body preferred to dine. Sometimes, the cream likes to sink to the bottom.

Not that the school lunch was objectively any better; but snobbery added a certain flavor to it.

In one chair, Gideon sat and ate contemplatively. The first day in his goth attire had nearly cost him his membership in Le Clique, but such was his charisma that none had dared openly reject him. Besides, he preferred to sit by himself (usually scheming with steepled fingers and burning eyes—a common pose among Le Clique’s members), so there was little they could do to snub his bold fashions. Now, they seemed almost natural for him.

He was thinking of when he could introduce Mabel into Le Clique and the highlife it entailed. Even if it did meet in the basement. Or rather, he was _trying_ to think of her. But he couldn’t quite focus—not even on perfect Mabel. He had this nagging sense that someone was . . . _watching_ him . . . Not that this was unusual; people habitually gawked at and gushed at him. “Why wouldn’t they? Look at widdle ol’ adorable me!” he had larked to himself as he descended to Le Clique.

But that nagging sense of being watched had followed him into Le Clique, where people were far too well-bred to gawk. They watched each other, of course, but subtly. Anyone so crass as to stare at him (or anyone else) ought to have been gawk-blocked at the door . . .

It made Gideon feel . . . uneasy . . .

Occasionally, he would think he had spotted whoever it was out of the corner of his eye—perhaps lingering in a shadow. The chic, low-level lighting of Le Clique meant that there were more than a few shadows. But every time he glanced its way, there was nothing . . .

“How very vexin’ . . . Enough to make one lose their appetite . . .”

Gideon pushed his tray away, rose, and left.

More than half of his meal was uneaten.

****

The fog shifted ever so slightly between #47 and #49, and suddenly the sideyard of #49 was completely visible. The sideyard and the gaping kitchen door.

The resident of #47—a man with eyelashes most women envied, and a moustache which had gone out of style in 1973—glanced up in surprise from his dishes. “Well, now . . . Isn’t that strange . . .” he murmured. Setting aside the dishes to dry, he dabbed his hands against a pair of cutoff shorts and watched the door.

No one appeared to close it. No one entered or exited through it. No lights were on beyond it. The door just hung completely ajar.

After perhaps a solid minute of watching the door for some sign of life, he slipped on a pair of battered biker boots—clothing that seemed strangely at odds with the chintzy style of his home décor, even though most of it did involve biker motifs (such as the cross-stitched Hell’s Angels logo hanging on one wall)—and marched out to investigate.

“Hello?” he called into the house. “Anybody home? It’s me! Tyler! Your neighbor! Cutest biker in the world (now that Baby-Faced-Phil finally got stabbed to death in a bar fight in Michigan)! Hello?”

No answer.

“Um . . . I saw your door hanging open, and just wanted to make sure everything was alright!” Tyler the Cute Biker continued. “I’m coming inside now! Please don’t shoot me or call the cops!”

Stepping carefully over the threshold, he looked around the kitchen and living room. Something was . . . off about it, though he couldn’t say just what exactly. But it felt colder than outside.

“H-hello?”

Still no answer.

One of the kitchen chairs had been knocked over and never righted. Empty and broken pens lay scattered behind it. On the wall in a far corner, it looked like someone had been scribbling over the wall. A pad of paper kept shuffling in the faint breeze; it was covered in drawings.

Tyler advanced carefully and looked down at them.

Then he scrambled out the door and vomited his lean cuisine lunch onto the sodden grass.

It took a moment for him to regain his composure. Even then, the one image he had seen was seared onto his retinas. Maybe forever. The idea that he would never be able to forget that picture . . . That was almost enough to make Tyler sick again. Who would sketch something so horrific?

Swallowing, he turned and stepped back into #49. “HELLO?” he called louder. More forcefully. More urgently. “ANYBODY HOME AT ALL? EVERYONE ALRIGHT?”

But there was still no answer.

“I . . . I’M CALLING THE POLICE NOW! BECAUSE I THINK SOMETHING REALLY BAD HAPPENED! BASICALLY NOW IS THE TIME TO COME OUT AND TELL ME EVERYTHING’S ALRIGHT! P-please?”

And, when there was still no answer, Tyler ran back to his house and grabbed his phone. But he didn’t make the call until he had bolted his own door.

A bone-weary voice answered his call. “Deputy Durland speakin’. If this isn’t life or death, please know you’re a-stoppin’ me from lookin’ for some lost kids.”

“Edwin! It’s Tyler! Can you get over to my place right this second?”

Deputy Durland sighed. “Tyler, I thought we discussed this. I am seeing someone else now—”

“It’s not about . . . that! I think something’s happened to my neighbors! Their house is—and they’ve just vanished! And the drawings! Those terrible drawings!”

“Tyler, calm down. I need you to speak slowly. Now what is goin’ on exactly?”

“It . . . It’ll be easier to show you. Please hurry. And get Blubbs to come with you!”

“But we’re in the middle of a townwide—”

“Just get ‘im, Edwin! Get ‘im! Get ‘im!”

Deputy Durland was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “Right. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

****

Miles away, busses were being loaded under a clear, sunny sky. Most of the people climbing in were wearing football uniforms and hollering, “GO WOODBURY! WHOO!” at regular intervals. Perhaps as a prayer invoking the favor of the football god, Espen.

But, and this was quite unusual, there were a few who wore black and makeup and piercings. When the busses finally shifted into gear and set their course for Gravity Falls, one or two of them smiled knowingly at each other.

“Yes . . . Go Woodbury, indeed . . .”

It would have been quite ominous if not for the hollering.

****

It was quite possibly the greatest day in Soos’ life; Mister Pines had entrusted him with a task—and a difficult one at that—and Soos had accomplished it with ease! He had found a Gabba!

As there were the cars of tourists parked outside the Shack, however, he did not march triumphantly through the front door with his conquest in his arms as originally envisioned (to fanfares and confetti and shouts of “Yay for Soos!”), but snuck in around the back with it in his arms. He had to set it down to open the door, though, and before he could pull it in, he stopped short.

There was a strange woman kneeling on the ground with her head in a cupboard. Cans were stacked systematically all around her.

“Um . . . Hi?”

“Hola,” she replied distractedly. She didn’t pull out from the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” Soos asked.

“Cleaning the kitchen.”

“Oh . . . Um . . . Should you be doing that?”

“Si,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation.

Soos shrugged. That was good enough for him. “Okay then.” He hefted the Gabba onto the kitchen floor and declared, “I’m gonna go find Mister Pines now.”

“Bueno,” the woman in the cupboard replied absently.

Stan was found with his business eyepatch on and his back against a wall, surveying the tourists as they meandered again amongst the displays. He looked surprised to see Soos back so soon—surprised and . . . guilty, maybe? But that was probably an impossible emotional response from him. “Soos?! What are you doing back so soon?!” he hissed. “I told you to find a—”

“I found one, Mister Pines!” the extra-large man-child whispered back delightedly!”

Stan blinked (or winked—one can never be sure when eyepatches are involved). “You what?”

“I found a Gabba! In the first shop I looked!”

Stan blinked (or winked) again. “You . . . what?”

“A Gabba! It’s in the kitchen right now! And also a woman who’s cleaning the kitchen, I guess?”

In the split second before it happened, Stan knew it would—all the synapses fired at once, like a calculator adding up two and two to four, and gave him the one inevitable conclusion. “Oh, sh—”

A woman’s scream from the kitchen. Then a gunshot.

The tourists jumped. Soos burst out, “What the—”

“IT’S OKAY, FOLKS!” Stan shouted. “NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT! SOOS HERE WILL ASSIST YOU WHILE I TAKE CARE OF THIS! REMEMBER TO BUY A SOUVENIR FOR YOURSELF, FOR YOUR FAMILY, AND FOR YOUR NEIGHBORS! DON’T BE THE JERK WHO FORGETS A GIFT FOR YOUR THIRD NEIGHBOR DOWN THE ROAD!” And then he was sprinting to the kitchen.

Esmerelsa was still kneeling on the kitchen floor when he arrived, panting and grasping a gun. Just beside the door was her victim, a creature with three red horns, floor-length arms, fur that was horizontally striped in light and dark green (like a sweater, but furry), big round eyes like an owl, and the ever-smiling mouth of a nightmare clown. Even now, lying on the ground with a hole in its chest, it grinned up at the ceiling.

“What the . . . Is _that_ a Gabba?” Stan muttered.

“I . . . I eshot it! Oh, mi eStandord! I eshot your el Chupacabra again!” Esmerelsa wailed.

Pulling her to her feet, he reassuringly put his arms around her. “It’s okay . . . I probly woulda shot that creepy S.O.B. too . . . Where’d you even get that gun?”

“It was at the back of the cupboard.”

“Oh, right . . . Good ol’ number six . . . So, um . . . What were you doing in the cupboard?”

“Organizing your kitchen,” she replied, her voice growing less shaky. “It was a pastime while you were with the touristas. All of your food is now alphabetized,” she added with a hint of pride.

Glancing into some of the open cupboards, Stan wondered, “Why is the meat before the beans, and the carrots after everything?”

Esmerelsa’s opened her mouth to reply, and then shut it. A blush crept into her cheeks. “Because . . . it eseems I alphabetized them in . . . eSpanish.”

A grin spread over Stan’s face. He tried to fight it, but he lost.

“I can alphabetize them in English,” she offered.

“Nah, it’s alright. You didn’t have to do that, y’know. I mean, I know that you kinda compulsively _did_ have to do it,” he added technically. “But thank you all the same. I . . . um . . . I want the place to be comfortable for you, so things might as well be in a Spanish alphabetical order.”

“You do?” she asked with quiet happiness.

“Yeah. For as long as you like.”

“I will like it for a very long time I think, mi eStanford.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat nervously. “So . . . you ready to maybe meet the kids?”

Esmerelsa blanched. “Los chicos? Already?”

“Not quite yet, but I need to go in about an hour.”

“Si. Si. Yes. I am ready. They are clean, si?” she asked quickly.

“Well . . . Dipper doesn’t shower or wash his clothes often (being a teenage boy), and Mabel has been wearing the same outfit since . . . For about a month,” Stan said somewhat throatily.

Esmerelsa’s pallor blanched a little further.

“But they’re great kids and probably cleaner than the average gremlin,” he added hastily.

“Si! Si!” she agreed in brittle voice. “I am esure it will be lovely. Now, you eshould return to your touristas. I espect you to take all their money. All of it. Or you get no kisses.”

“Except this one!” And Stan pecked her lightly on the lips before hustling back to the museum.

Esmerelsa almost touched her lips. Then she remembered that she had been handling things for most of the day—bacteria-covered things—and went to thoroughly wash her hands first.

Of course, a kind of quiet panic started to simmer deep in the pit of her stomach at that point. “Los chicos . . . Los chicos . . .” But she managed to subdue it by scrubbing the walls again.

****

The busses had left Woodbury half-an-hour earlier than scheduled, and so they arrived in Gravity Falls right in the middle of final period—half-an-hour earlier than expected.

Paul Oftarzis, Grand Goth of Woodbury Middle and High School, swept off the first bus with his entourage. He watched with satisfaction as, in less than a minute, the visiting football team assembled in close ranks before Brock and the Head Coach of Woodbury.

“You remember the play?” Brock shouted.

There was a single mass-whoop for an answer.

“Then go! GO WOODBURY!”

“GO WOODBURY!”

All but the four toughest-looking players (including Brock) took off at a sprint around the school. Two-man teams peeled off from the group at every door, sealing the exits.

“Exquisite,” Paul Oftarzis intoned.

“A-yep,” the Head Coach of Woodbury agreed.

“Come,” Paul Oftarzis ordered those around him. “We have a school to occupy.”

They marched—goths, coach, and football players—straight to the office. Despite the protests of the staff working there, they subdued it easily. Barging into the office of the Principal, who happened to be speaking with their head coach, they seized the intercom equipment.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the Principal sputtered.

And, watching through the wall, Detoby called out, {I second that!}

Only when he held the microphone did the Head Coach of Woodbury address their captives. “We demand your formal and unconditional surrender.”

“Y-you can’t do this!”

“Uh, we just _did_. WHOO!” Brock countered. “Y’all got _Woodburied_!”

“What are you doing?” the now captive head coach asked reasonably. “You know the Treaty of Medford High specifically says that conquest of a rival school does not count as a sporting victory.”

Stepping forward imperiously, the Grand Goth of Woodbury declared, “This has nothing to do with your football game.”

“It . . . doesn’t?”

“A-nope,” the Head Coach of Woodbury replied candidly. “Once all this is finished, your school will be released and then we’ll have a good, fair game. Which we’ll win, by the way.”

“WHOO! GO WOODBURY!”

“But then, why—”

“We are here for the Heretic—the fallen Keeper of the Precepts—which you harbor!” Cracking his umbral umbrella against the Principal’s desk, the Grand Goth of Woodbury dictated, “Give him to us for judgment, and all others will be spared. These are our terms.”

“Heretic?” the Principal repeated in bewilderment. “This is about that _tiff_ the goths had?”

“It is no mere tiff! It is an heretical insurrection to be stamped out!”

“Well, I must say . . . I wasn’t expecting a High School inquisition,” the Principal murmured.

“No one expected it,” the Head Coach of Woodbury declared. “That is sorta the point of a surprise attack.”

The captive head coach cocked an eyebrow at his counterpart. “Since when do you care about goth affairs?”

“I don’t. But in exchange for our services, Woodbury Football is getting some new uniforms.”

“My family happens to be rather wealthy,” Paul Oftarzis confirmed nonchalantly.

“Just imagine! Something fierce and intimidating! Black and silver, with a bird’s skull for the team logo . . . No one will ever snicker at the Woodbury Woodcocks again—that I can tell you!”

Detoby snorted.

“So you’re . . . mercenaries for the goths?” the Principal asked incredulously.

“‘Mercenary’ is such . . . an accurate word,” the Grand Goth of Woodbury quipped. “However, we prefer to think of them as contracted enforcement specialists. Now, where is Samuel Turley?”

“If you think I’m just going to give up one of my students as a sacrificial lamb, you are—”

“—completely right,” Paul Oftarzis interrupted succinctly. “Unless you want this getting out.” From his coat, he drew a photo and held it out for inspection.

The Principal blanched. “W-where did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

Zooming in for a closer look, Detoby saw a picture of the Principal in garish colors and clothing (surrounded by other people in garish colors or horse costumes). There was a banner overhead that read “PonyCon”. {Good galloping golly . . .}

“T-that could be anyone . . .” the Principal protested weakly.

“No, it really couldn’t. So are you ready to comply now?” the Grand Goth of Woodbury inquired. “I have stacks of copies waiting for distribution if you prefer to resist.”

With a grimace, the Principal snarled, “Fine!” And, after a moment looking up the records on the computer, an answer was given. “Room B-3. Ceramics. But you don’t get to hurt him!”

“Why hurt his body when I can break his spirit?” Pounding the umbral umbrella like a gavel against the ground, Paul Oftarzis commanded, “Bring him before me!”

With a glance, Brock dispatched two of the football team.

In the awkward silence that followed, the Head Coach of Woodbury cleared his throat, “So . . . How’s your team looking this year? You going to give us a challenge today?”

“Oh, sure. But the weather’s been crazy—that fog is going to limit visibility for both of us.”

“Yeah, what’s with that? It was clear and beautiful until we came over the pass.”

The Principal glowered at both of them. So did the Grand Goth of Woodbury.

Meanwhile, in the ceramics classroom (truly, the most useful of vocational credits), a beautiful new bowl stood ready for inspection on a desk. The Keeper of the Precepts checked it from every angle for faults or cracks, but it appeared flawless. The glaze was even and shiny. Beneath that, the paint was surprisingly vibrant, in a pattern of turquoise and copper; he had made it for a free-spirited aunt living near the Navajo reservation.

“And now, for the ultimate test . . .”

He drew a two-liter bottle of Pitt from his backpack, opened it, and poured it all into the bowl. No overflow. No leaks. No wobbling.

“Perfect!”

Behind him, the teacher nodded approvingly. “Very nice, Sam. That’s an A+ bowl.”

“Thanks! I still say your class is useless, though.”

“I’m still not disagreeing with you,” the teacher replied evenly. “But I bet it at least helped you get your mind off . . . things . . . For a little while at least.”

“Yeah . . . It did. Thanks. Are you helping us search for Ebony after school?”

“Of course, Sam. You know we all are—all us teachers—as much as we can. Has there been—”

With a slam, the door burst open and two boys that were each the size of two normal boys stormed in. As everyone stared at them, their eyes scythed through the room, coming finally to rest on the Keeper of the Precepts. “YOU!” one shouted, pointing at him.

“Me?”

“COME WITH US!”

They sprung across the room in an instant and one of them seized him. He struggled; he even broke free momentarily, but only to stumble back against the desk. When he instinctively tried to catch himself against the desk, it upended—sending the bowl full of Pitt straight into the air. A second later, he was flat on his back, watching (as if in slow motion) as his first ceramics project twirled through the air overhead. Slowly, gravity pulled it back down. It fell and shattered against his chest, soaking him in fizzy, peach-flavored soda.

But the Keeper of the Precepts was jerked upwards again before he could even register his loss.

“Paulina wants a word,” one of the football boys growled at him.

“Yeah!” the other barked. And then, he said, “Ew . . .” and wiped his soda-damp hand on a random student. “So march!”

“W-what is even going on here?!” the teacher sputtered.

No answer was given—no answer apart from “GO WOODBURY! WHOO!”

****

Detoby watched in mounting bewilderment when a chubby (and damp and sticky) boy in a cloak was dragged into the Principal’s office—bewilderment matched only by the boy in question.

“Paul?” the Keeper of the Precepts gaped incredulously.

“That’s ‘Your Grand Gothness’ to you, Heretic!” Paul Oftarzis snapped, brandishing his umbral umbrella like a sword. There was an echo of wrathful mutterings amongst the Woodbury goths.

“What are you even doing here? What is the meaning of all this?”

“We have come to deliver judgment upon your unholy uprising. You shall be made to recant for the good of our Dark Order.” With a slight softening of his expression and tone, he continued, “I hope you will make this easy on yourself.”

Straightening up, the Keeper of the Precepts gravely shook his head. “I cannot. I have been endarkened, and must remain faithful to the true Dark Order that has been revealed to me.”

The softness was gone. “I see. You disappoint me, Sam. One last question: where is Ebony?”

“I do not know. I’ve been looking for him/her every moment I can. All the Consortium has.”

Passing the intercom back to the Principal, the Grand Goth of Woodbury ordered, “Make an announcement. I want all the goths to assemble in the gym—along with anyone else who wants to learn what it truly means to be goth.”

Not ten minutes after the announcement (“Attention all goths of the Gravity Falls Consortium. By decree of our Woodbury overlords, you are to proceed to the gym immediately. What’s that? I am informed that resistance is futile. Forgiveness will be given freely to all who recant their heresy against the dark order. Huh? Oh, that’s ‘the Dark Order’ apparently. Also, any non-goth students who wish to watch this inquisition are welcome.”), the gym was half-full with goths and students willing to take any excuse to get out of class early.

Dipper and Norman were both among them (as was Detoby), and they soon found each other.

“Hey, man. W-what was that about new overlords and an inquisition?” the Medium asked. “Like, is that normal here? Because it isn’t in Massachusetts.”

“Don’t look at me. I’m from California,” Dipper replied.

{Right. And nothing screwy ever happens in California,} Detoby quipped.

“Have you seen my sister?” Dipper asked worriedly. He couldn’t help but eye the football team from Woodbury, their expressions stony and ominous as they watched the crowd. “I’m . . . What if she gets caught up in this?”

With yet another slam, the doors of the gym were thrown open. In marched the retinue from Woodbury, with the captive Keeper of the Precepts held tightly by each arm.

“All goths of Gravity Falls, to the fore!” the Grand Goth of Woodbury bellowed. He pounded the umbral umbrella against the ground as he did. “You must see what transpires more than the others! Which of you is this traitor’s ‘Promised One’?”

“Mabel!” Dipper hissed.

Norman murmured, “I th-think she might already be caught up in this . . .”

In another part of the crowd, Candy and Grenda both screened their friend protectively.

And, to their surprise, so did those goths who stood nearby. “Keep your head down!” one of them whispered imploringly.

“WELL?!” the Grand Goth of Woodbury snapped. When no answer was given, he whirled on Samuel Turley. “Where is this so-called Promised One?! Talk!”

The Keeper of the Precepts held his peace.

“Are you willing to martyr yourself?!”

“For the true Dark Order, yes,” he answered quietly.

“And would a Promised One stand by and watch you suffer scorn and shame? Would they sacrifice your safety for theirs? Hardly seems worthy of devotion,” Paul Oftarzis mocked.

“It is you who is not acting worthily, Paul.”

“ENOUGH! In the name of the Dark Order, charged by a Council of Grand Goths, I, Paul Oftarzis, here demand you to recant the heresies you have preached falsely so that you—though sworn to serve as a Keeper of the Precepts—could seize control of the Gravity Falls Consortium!”

The cloaked boy looked genuinely surprised to hear such a charge. “Wait, what?”

“You have preached an end to rankings, an end to the authority of the Grand Goths, and even an end to our fashions! That all may take the black or leave it as they wish! You have preached that there is no longer such a thing as poseurs! All damnable lies! ALL FOR YOUR OWN VAINGLORY!”

“NO!” voices shouted from the crowd.

“He never said any of those things!”

“You got it all wrong!”

“The KP’s not like that!”

“SILENCE!” the Grand Goth of Woodbury snarled. “I ask you now, Samuel Turley, will you recant and end the chaos you have planted in the heart of the Dark Order?”

“I have planted only the truth in it, Paul. Truth you have not understood.”

“You will be publicly shamed if you do not. Cast out and scorned as a poseur.”

“Do what you will to me; it changes nothing of the truth,” the Keeper of the Precepts declared.

Paul Oftarzis gestured to one of his own. “Bring forth the Stickers of Shame!”

A gasp came up from the Consortium at large. Sounds of puzzlement came from everyone else. Someone even said, “Wait . . . Are we being punked?”

A briefcase was opened, and sparkly-rainbow light burst out from it.

Most of the goths present hissed and covered what little exposed skin they had. “It burnsss!”

“So . . . pretty . . .” Candy intoned.

Grenda stood on tiptoes to get a better look. “I think those are . . . My Little Pony stickers . . .”

“Seriously?” Mabel wondered aloud. “More My Little Pony stickers? What is with these guys and their hatred of My Little Pony?”

Turning a hard eye on the Keeper of the Precepts, Paul Oftarzis stated, “Ultra-Permanent. Deluxe. Glow-in-the-Dark. Three pounds of glitter per square inch. Legally, you can’t even own these in the United States, because they’re a visual hazard to planes. I had to have them shipped in from Luxembourg.”

The Keeper of the Precepts, in spite of himself, gulped.

“And did I mention that they’re _ultra_-permanent? Once affixed to a surface—plaster, stone, cloth . . . skin—they will adhere to it until the end of the universe. Glittering and sparkling in the dark. Eternal proof that the bearer of such a shame has been cut off from the Dark Order. Well, Sam? Is that what you want? Is that what you’re willing to suffer for your vainglory? Eternal poseurdom? Recant.”

Closing his eyes, the Keeper of the Precepts hung his head. And then he shook it. “I cannot.”

“This is your last chance!” the Grand Goth of Woodbury rapped out. “Renounce your heresy and deny your false, puppet Promised One!”

“Who’s he calling a puppet?” Mabel demanded.

“Shh! Your Dark Grace, please!” one of the screening goths hissed at her. “Can’t you see he’s protecting you from this shame?”

“What shame?”Grenda asked. “They’re cute stickers. Besides, they don’t stick to Mabel or her friends unless she wants them to.”

“You can . . . overcome the power of the stickers?” the goth gasped.

“Well, yeah. It’s easy.”

At the front of the gym, the Grand Goth of Woodbury demanded, “Well?! What is your answer?! Do you admit your blasphemy?!”

The Keeper of the Precepts murmured, “Never.”

With a snap of his bejeweled fingers, the Grand Goth of Woodbury ordered, “Defrock him!”

The two football players holding the captive stared blankly. “Huh?”

“Well? Defrock him!”

“Dude, that doesn’t sound like something we agreed to.”

“It means strip him—”

“Ew. We are not getting paid—”

“OF THE INSIGNIAS OF HIS RANK! Just . . . just rip off his cloak, okay?!”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

In one harsh motion, the cloak was ripped from the shoulders of the Keeper of the Precepts. Somehow, it made him seem smaller and yet bigger at the same time, for he stood up straight and shouted to the watching crowd, “Do whatever you like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone! This is no heresy! It is truth! THE ONE TRUTH!”

“Hold him tight! A madness is come upon him!” Paul Oftarzis commanded.

“DO WHATEVER YOU LIKE, SO LONG AS IT DOESN’T HURT ANYONE! DO WHATEVER YOU LIKE—”

Peeling off the first sticker (a light blue one with a rainbow mane) the Grand Goth of Woodbury intoned, “In the name of the Dark Order, I BRAND YOU A POSEUR!” and slammed it against his captive.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO—huh?”

The sticker held for only a second. Then, slowly, it curled off and fell limply to the ground.

Silence. Stunned silence. From the goths at least. From everyone else, it was a silence of the mildly confused variety.

“P-perhaps it was defective . . .”

Paul Oftarzis peeled off another and stuck it to his captive. Again, it held for only a brief instant. And then it fell limply to the ground.

“That’s . . . impossible . . .”

Near Mabel, the goths screening her from view turned slowly and gazed upon her. Awestruck. “How is Your Dark Grace doing that?” one whispered.

“I’m not . . . At least, I don’t think I am . . .”

Candy suggested in an awestruck voice, “Maybe you really do have dark powers!”

Another sticker! And another! And another! The Grand Goth of Woodbury peppered the captive with them, but none held! Finally, in a froth of desperation, he peeled off the largest and sparkliest of them all and smeared it onto the captive’s face!

But it, too, would not stick.

Aghast, Paul Oftarzis fell back a step. “W-WITCHCRAFT!”

“Wouldn’t that . . . make him like the coolest goth ever?” someone ventured.

“I . . . I suppose . . .” Paul Oftarzis conceded. “_But why him_? Why would the Dark Order bless _him_ with eldritch powers? He is an _heretic_ and a _poseur_! The council so named him!”

Though no less surprised than all the others, the Keeper of the Precepts asked, “Will you listen to me if I explain my position? Please?”

“B-but . . . You have perverted the Dark Order . . . Haven’t you?”

“No. I have not. May I be released, please? This is kinda hurting my shoulders.”

For a moment, the Grand Goth of Woodbury hesitated. Then he signaled his mercenaries, and they released their captive.

Now, standing before them all bereft of cloak—and yet cloaked in the mystery of what seemed to be a miracle—the Keeper of the Precepts spoke. “There is but _one_ simple message the Promised One has brought to us: do whatever you like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. We are _free_ to do as we wish, _so long_ as doing so does not infringe upon the freedom of another. That is all. We do not have to obey another person—do not have to conform to their views of gothness, or success, or happiness . . . Someone can tell us what _their_ truth is, but they cannot tell us what _our_ truth is. That we must find, and find it for ourselves alone . . .”

Spellbound, even the non-goths listened as Samuel Turley spoke with all his soul. Not a sound interrupted his oration.

“This is not heresy against the Dark Order; this is what the Dark Order fundamentally _is_! But we have forgotten. We have become so obsessed with our ranks and our appearances—about looking and talking _like_ goths (so that others will think we are goths) instead of just _being_ goths for ourselves . . . Being goths as we each individually believe goths are . . . Or anything else, I imagine. Wearing a label over one’s heart has become so important for some people, that I wonder if they even remember what their heart looks like . . .”

Some, unconsciously, laid a hand upon their own hearts.

“Has this brought us happiness? Has this made us better people? No, I think not. Only less free. But the Promised One . . . the Promised One took the black because that felt right. And may leave it just as soon for the same reason. But did we take the black because it felt right for us, or because we desired the approval of others? Did we get a piercing, for example, because it felt right for us, or because some person claiming authority said we should? Have we let ourselves believe that we require someone else’s permission to live our lives? Have we made ourselves slaves to the opinions of others, or are we free? Myself, I am now trying to be free—to _not_ _care_ what others think of me, as I believe a true goth would. Truly not care, but acting as I believe right. So tell me, goths of Woodbury, is this heresy? Is it, Paul?”

The Grand Goth of Woodbury opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He was speechless, but he managed to shake his head.

“Then why do you persecute me? Why do you persecute us of the Gravity Falls Consortium, and others who seek to live this truth?”

“I . . . I didn’t understand . . . I didn’t realize . . .” he admitted. “I’m . . . s-sorry.”

Laying a hand on his compatriot’s shoulder, the Keeper of the Precepts forgave him. “It’s okay. What’s a little invasion and psychological torture between friends, right?”

“Ha! Yeah . . .”

Beside Norman, Dipper whispered, “These guys are freaks.”

And, a little ways off, Grenda whispered to Candy and Mabel, “These guys are freaks.”

As the Keeper of the Precepts reclaimed his cloak, Paul Oftarzis asked, “How am I to return to the other Grand Goths, though? They will . . . They might not believe the truth . . .”

“It does not matter. Truth is still Truth, even when no one believes it.”

“You’re right, Sam . . . But . . . They will name me a poseur when I tell them this. Ostracize any who agree with me. Must I live as a pariah in order to not live a lie?”

His entourage stepped forward. “We’ll still stand with you, Your Grand Gothness.”

“As will I. As will we—all of us, yes?” the Keeper of the Precepts asked the Consortium.

A chorus of affirmations followed. Even from the non-goths.

“Do not be afraid if it is difficult,” the recloaked boy advised. “If doing the right thing were easy, everyone would do it. It is the self-sacrifice that makes it noble. But I will go with you and testify of this Dark Truth to them. You just have to pick me up, since I don’t have a car.”

Looking at the umbral umbrella in his hand, Paul Oftarzis asked, “Does it not bother you that they will revile us? That they shall surely divest us of our rank? Of our standing among the goths? Our standing in the Dark Order? Of everything we have?”

“They cannot take away the darkness that is in our hearts.”

“Wow . . .” the Head Coach of Woodbury murmured to his counterpart and to the Principal. “That’s some deep stuff . . .”

“Yeah. Sorta makes me wish I was a goth . . .”

With a light-hearted laugh, the Grand Goth of Woodbury asked, “So we’re to just . . . walk into the Dark Council shouting ‘Do whatever you like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone’? I suppose there are worse battlecries . . .”

“But it’s _not_ a battlecry. The Dark Order needs no battlecries. Truth never does.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s . . . It’s more like a prayer,” the Keeper of the Precepts affirmed.

At that exact moment, all the lights in the gym went out.

Some murmured, “It’s a miracle! A miracle of the Dark Order! Dark Providence itself testifies of the truth!”

And, in that moment, everyone present at least . . . sorta believed it could be.

It would later be discovered that this power failure was due to a raccoon chewing through an electrical wire. The more rationally-minded would nod complacently to themselves—of course that explained everything scientifically; there was surely no such thing as Providence (Dark or otherwise). And while no one would ever discover that it was the Pitt soaked into the clothing and skin of the Keeper of the Precepts that had dissolved the adhesive on the stickers (even the ultra-permanent formula), the more rationally-minded would have taken that as additional proof that miracles just simply do not exist. It was only an astronomical coincidence—not Dark Providence at all.

And yet the more spiritually-minded, even if they were told the scientific explanations behind these events, would still maintain that the astronomical coincidences that had produced these events (especially given their fortuitous timing) were just added proof that it was the work of some Providence (Dark or otherwise). They would nod ecstatically to themselves—of course that proved a religious power was at work; surely being able to explain _how_ something happened does not explain _why_ it happened.

Both the rationally-minded and the spiritually-minded would be right, though both would likely be convinced that the other was wrong.

Many make the mistake of believing that science and religion are diametrically opposed. But they are, in fact, parallels that cannot ever touch. Science is the physical and the objective and the fact, while religion is the metaphysical and the subjective and the truth. Science is all about “How?”, while religion is all about “Why?” This is why no religion can ever be disproven, for proof of a spiritual matter is inherently subjective—inherently personal. Some can see divinity where others see proof it never was. Science can prove that some religion-based conception of the physical world is not factual (for example, that the Earth does not have four corners), but it cannot disprove any spiritual assertion. One may as well try to disprove a poetic metaphor such as “love is like a river”. However, it is equally indisputable that no religious dogma can change a scientific fact. The two simply cannot touch one another.

The fact is: a raccoon chewed through a wire at that exact moment, and the lights went out.

The truth is: that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen for some greater cosmic reason.

Each person must decide for themselves what they believe and why, and they must reevaluate their beliefs at nearly every step of their existence. After each new experience. And especially after each new encounter with another person doing the same. Not unlike all the students stumbling through the darkened gym—fumbling and bumbling blindly together for the exits. Some held onto friends as they searched (like Dipper and Norman, or like Mabel and Candy and Grenda), and that made their experience easier. Or more fun, at least.

The whole thing was probably symbolic as all heck.


	14. Chapter 14

Sticking his head into the kitchen, Stan announced, “I’m off to get the gremlins now. Soos is busy leading a tour, so he should stay out of your hair.”

Esmerelsa bolted around from re-alphabetizing the cupboards. “Al-already?” she squeaked.

“Should be back in a few minutes. You um . . . ready to meet them?”

“Si!” A rictus of a smile was plastered to her jaw.

“Alright. Be right back.”

Alone again in the kitchen, Esmerelsa looked around desperately. Like a wild animal searching for some avenue of escape. She had managed to avoid having filthy, fragile, filthy, frightening, filthy, filthy children in her life for decades; now she was about to have two at once. Twins, no less. Probably always working in tandem to do those . . . children things: make messes and hurt themselves (or, worse, be hurt irreparably by others . . . by her, even) and make more messes, sometimes involving bodily fluids from being hurt accidentally. Sometimes involving bodily fluids because children were stupidos and thought bodily fluids were fun. Bacteria everywhere. And tears and blood and urine and tears.

She almost literally tackled the walls again. In Spanish, she muttered to herself, “Just keep scrubbing . . . Just keep scrubbing . . .”

****

{Well, that was one of the strangest things I ever cast my peepers on,} Detoby commented as he drifted along between Norman and Dipper. {And, keep in mind, I’ve been in Oregon for over a century.}

“Yeah,” the Medium agreed. “And now, everyone seems to be friends. Even though they technically invaded us. Can they like even d-do that?”

Dipper shrugged. “Apparently? I’m just glad Mabel didn’t get dragged into that . . . Really, only _she_ could decide to experiment with a new fashion, and wind up the center of a religious war between two different towns! And speaking of the she-devil.”

That phrase, like a magnet, brought Mabel’s head around. It didn’t matter that she stood on the opposite side of a crowded and noisy hall from her brother; she heard it. “Don’t call me that, Dipstick.”

“You okay, sis?”

“Apart from the fact that I’m looking at your butt face and your fakey friend’s real butt face? Dandy as cotton candy.”

Norman’s face reddened, but he said nothing.

{You shouldn’t let her talk to you like that,} Detoby said to Norman. {When a bearcat tries to claw you, just flick some water in its face and tell it to get down.}

“Yeah, that sounds like it’ll work great,” the Medium muttered back.

Mabel whirled on him. “You say something to me, Whoosh O’Liar?”

“N-nothing to you,” he answered meekly.

Before Dipper could object to this, Grenda did. “Mabel. You’re being kinda mean.”

Mabel made no real response. She couldn’t—she already knew it was true. “Whatever . . .”

Candy cleared her throat in the awkward silence. “We should go. School is out. Bye, Dipper. Ahn-yo,” she added to Norman.

“Ahn-yoh-hi-gyes-yo,” he replied automatically, which made the Korean girl smile to herself.

Once they were alone (in the middle of the crowd), Dipper sighed. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s o-okay!” Norman insisted quickly.

“She’s coming around to you though. Really, she is,” the behatted boy insisted.

{Like a haymaker, by the looks of it.} And Detoby honked his spectral horn.

“Haymaker?” Norman asked.

“What now?”

“Not you. Detoby.”

“Oh.”

{It’s a KO punch in boxing.}

“Ah,” Norman intoned.

“What?”

“N-nothing. Detoby still.”

“Gah! I hate being out of the conversation.”

“S-sorry.” And then, to change the subject, Norman asked, “Hey, Detoby, did you hear anything in the office?”

{You mean besides the gossip and the invasion? Zilch. Still no word on a disappearance.}

“Nothing to report,” the Medium transmitted to his friend.

“Well . . . We carry on as planned,” Dipper said as he threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “To your house! And then to the internet!”

Trying to play casual, Norman stuttered, “W-what about our things? In our lockers?”

“Amendment: To our lockers! And then to your house! And then to the internet!”

As they were leaving the building, they bumped into the girls again. They would have been able to do little else, for the front entrance was jammed with students and cars—more than it had ever been.

“What’s going on?” Norman asked Candy.

“It seems that most every parent in town is here to pick up their kids personally.”

“Huh? Why?” Dipper asked.

Grenda bit her lip. “There’s been another disappearance. It was like just barely discovered.”

{No!}

“Who?”

“You know Pacifica’s other friend? The redhead?”

Dipper’s eyes widened. “So all three of them are gone?”

“Looks like.” Grenda glanced away, glanced over the tight jam of students and cars. “It’s funny. We prob’ly all wished those three’d all just go away, but . . .”

Mabel stiffened. “S-so? That doesn’t mean we really wanted something like this to happen!”

“No, but still . . . There’s my mom,” Grenda said, pointing ahead. “You think we can just go to my place today?” she asked Candy and Mabel.

“We should let our parents know first. So that they don’t worry,” Candy insisted.

To Mabel, Dipper offered, “I can let Gruncle Stan know that’s where you went.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You o-okay?” Norman asked her timidly. “You look a little . . . shaken.”

Marching off at ahead of her friends, Mabel said, “I’m fine. Fakey.”

{Yep. Coming around. Any day now, she’ll be baking you pies and knitting you sweaters.}

“Come on,” Dipper said consolingly. “Let’s force our way out of this. I can call Gruncle Stan from your house.”

“S-sure thing.”

****

Gideon, halfway home, stopped.

The feeling that he was being watched was stronger than ever before. He was even certain that he had heard the footsteps of someone following him, but they had stopped when he did. Now, seemingly alone in a world of empty streets and impenetrable fog, he spoke aloud, “I know you’re there. And I know you’ve been there all day. You might as well show yourself.”

There was no answer.

Gideon, though soft as a marshmallow, smiled to himself. There was a razor blade in his smile. “You think you can play games with me, do ya?”

There was still no answer.

“Alright . . . Let me think a moment . . .”

He had seen nothing of his follower all throughout the day, but he had felt them there. Felt a presence that set his teeth on edge more than the filth and the fools that surrounded him every day. Perhaps he had almost heard it whispering dark words to him about not having any friends, about being a widdle ol’ monster. But so what? Nothing like that mattered to Gideon Gleeful. Lies he could ignore.

“But . . . how could you whisper to me and yet remain unseen? Unless . . . A-_ha_ . . . Well, I know a trick or two for dealin’ with the likes of you . . .”

He closed his eyes and started thinking at himself. Focus, like the book says. Shut out everything and focus . . . Now, open your mind like openin’ a third eye, one that always sees . . . Now, look around. Really look around. Don’t look at anything, but look at everything . . .

Slowly, Gideon Gleeful looked around him. He looked at nothing individually, and yet he looked at everything one at a time. And that was how he saw it hiding in the corners of reality. The thing with no face.

“Ha!” he laughed quietly to himself. “As I thought . . .”

He turned on his heel and walked directly home. Not once did he stop, not until he sat before his desk in his room with 2 before him. He found nothing about the thing waiting, even then, for him outside in the fog, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t find something useful.

Glancing out the window, Gideon smiled his razor blade smile again. “You think you can play games with me, do ya? Well, I don’t play. I _win_.”

From downstairs, he collected a welcome mat, a bowl, a paintbrush, a knife, and a bandage. Then, with schemes dancing in his brain of taking the Mystery Shack and winning his lady love, he went to work.

****

When Stan finally gave up waiting for the kids and, disappointed, returned to the Shack, it was to find the kitchen immaculate and ordered and empty. Then it occurred to him that the parking lot was also empty—only his car and Soos’ pickup.

“Esmerelsa?” he called.

He glanced in the parlor and the break room, then in the museum. Empty.

Empty!

He felt a surge of panic! She had left him again! Jetskied out of his life!

“But . . . Wait. No. That’s just ridiculous. I mean, she’d have to at least drive to the lake to jetski out of my life this time, and that’s a few miles away . . .”

“Mister Pines?” Emerging from the gift shop, Soos smiled. “Thought I heard you. What was that about jetskis?”

“Nothing.”

“By the way, Dipping Sauce called,” Soos reported faithfully. “Mabel’s with her girlfriends, and he’s over at his friend’s house. You remember Paintbrush, right? Dudes’re working on something super important he said. About all the kids disappearing and stuff.”

Stan grumbled to himself. “Typical. The one time I want ‘em to come home right after school, they’re off investigating conspiracies and trying to be heroes and other responsible stuff . . .”

“Hmm?” Soos asked attentively.

“Nothing. So that um woman . . .” the older man began uneasily.

“The one you hired to clean the kitchen?”

“Yes. That is exactly the nature of our relationship, and you don’t need to think about it in any greater depth than that. She finish early, or what?”

“I think so. She ran out of here a couple of minutes ago. Kept muttering ‘Los Tacos’ or something like that. Maybe not. I was kinda hungry at the time and thinking about tacos. Of course, I’m usually hungry and thinking about tacos.”

Stan was already headed for the door. “I’ll be right back!” he tried not to shout, though he did.

Again, he practically flew through the haze and the town—reckless with panic. What if Esmerelsa was gone again? What if she was gone for good? As sudden and heartbreaking as last time. Worse, maybe. No, worse definitely. What if he never saw her again?

But there was her car, parked in its place outside the Hotel Lodge.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Stan breathed.

She answered when he knocked, answered with runny eyes. “Mi eStanford!” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him. “I’m esorry! eSorry! I . . . c-couldn’t do it! I estarted thinking about them, about los chicos and living with them and you all together, and I . . . I couldn’t breathe!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he shooshed her. “It’s okay.”

“I want to meet them! Really! I want to be with you, mi eStanford . . . Be in your life—all of it . . . And I know they are a big part of your life. But I . . . There is eso much with los chicos that can go wrong, and I . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay. I should’ve realized you weren’t ready for so big a change so suddenly. In retrospect, I guess it _was_ kinda obvious . . .”

“But I want to be!” she insisted. “Why isn’t that enough, mi eStanford? Why?”

“I’m just glad you’re still here,” he reassured her softly. “I started having flashbacks to . . . Panama . . .”

Surprised, she stammered, “You were thinking I left you?”

“All I could think of was jetskis and seaplanes.”

“Oh, mi eStanford . . . I’m eso esorry . . . I didn’t mean to do that to you. To escare you. Never.”

He nodded. “I know. Hey, let’s forget about this setback today. Too much all at once, when what we need are baby steps.”

“Baby esteps?”

“Little changes for both of us. Like . . . date night tomorrow!” he suggested excitedly. “Tomorrow is Friday, so we’ll go out on a date. Start having regular date nights together. How’s that?”

“That would be very enjoyable, I think,” she replied, happy he was not disappointed with her.

“Yeah? Okay! So what would you like to do more than anything in the world tomorrow? Just name it, and it’s yours,” Stan promised her.

“Anything?” It was almost paralyzing, all this freedom to choose.

“Your heart’s desire.”

Looking up into his eyes, she let the possibilities stream past her in a blur. One stood out, though, and she whispered it into his ear. “I want to tango with you again. Like we tangoed in Bogota.”

In spite of himself, Stan swallowed. “Alright, but y’know . . . I haven’t danced in a long while . . . Not since Panama . . . Haven’t had the heart for it . . .”

“Nor I, but . . . We have time to remember before tomorrow, no?”

“Si,” Stan replied teasingly. “Leave it to me. I’ll make it . . . perfecto.”

“Perfecto, you esay?”

“Perfecto, I esay. Er, say.”

****

As Perry had instructed, the boys did go directly back to Norman’s house. It just so happened that their direct route wound off into the suburbs and passed by Minion #2’s house first. Not like they planned it that way, or anything; Norman just sometimes got confused, having only lived in Gravity Falls for about a month. That was totally how it happened, if anyone asked.

Currently, a police cordon separated a semi-crowd of worried onlookers from a semi-force of bone-weary investigators. Standing a ways off from it, Dipper sighed with disappointment. “Doesn’t look like we’d be able to slip in and have a look, does it?”

“Well, m-maybe not you or me . . .” Norman said with a glance at Detoby.

“Oh, right! I keep forgetting the invisible guy is there. You willing to look for us, Detoby?”

{Are you asking if I, a former newspaperman, would weasel my way into a police investigation? Why, perish the thought!} the Jokergeist said with a honk of his horn.

“He’s willing,” Norman transmitted to Dipper. “And . . . there he goes. Right now, he’s drifting all over the yard. P-probably looking for footprints . . .”

{NOTHING! THE YARD IS CLEAR!}

“Hmm . . . No footprints, apparently . . .”

“So . . . She didn’t run like the others?” Dipper surmised.

“G-guess not,” Norman said with a shrug.

“Hmm . . . Did she not get a chance, I wonder?”

{I’M GOING INSIDE! BE RIGHT BACK! DON’T DISAPPEAR ON ME!} And Detoby turned and floated through the walls of the house.

“He’s inside,” the Medium reported. “So, um . . . This girl was also f-friends with, er, Altanica?”

“Pacifica. Yeah. She and the girl before her were really inseparable from Pacifica . . . Mabel and I always called them her ‘minions’. Seems kinda petty now . . Like Grenda said, we all sorta wished they’d just go away, but no one wanted _this_ . . . Not even they deserved _this_ . . . No one does . . .”

“So there was a connection between those three. Was there one between them and that goth? Like . . . did they know each other?”

Dipper rubbed his chin reflectively, and Norman was struck by how cute the gesture was. Everyfricativething he did was cute. “Maybe . . .” Dipper mused aloud. “It seems like there’d have to be, but I don’t know about it . . . They don’t strike me as the type to be friends, what with the age difference and the group difference . . . Maybe we could ask some of the other goths? Y’know, after they finish . . . not excommunicating each other, I guess?”

“They were all p-popular, right? Could that be it?” the Medium suggested.

“Except that the goth had like a fall from grace a couple days before she/he disappeared.”

“Oh, yeah . . .”

“And popular, well . . . Yes and no. I imagine there were a lot of people who didn’t like them.”

Norman furrowed his brow. “D-do you think that’s the connection? Like . . . whatever took them took them b-because it didn’t like them?”

“Could be. I don’t know. Gah!” Dipper said in frustration. “There’s so much we don’t know!”

“Well, Detoby’s coming back. M-maybe he can tell us something useful.”

Once back, Detoby shook his head. {I tell you, Bugaboo, I can’t make heads nor tails of this . . . Like the minter said of a baseball . . .}

“Er . . . huh?”

{Well, I gather that it’s not just the girl, but her dad and mom too that are so AWOL they’re also a window and a door. Maybe in a prison? I heard one flatfoot mention they can’t get a handle on their cell phones—}

“No, cell phones are those phones you can carry with you,” Norman explained, drawing his.

{Ah. Wait, no. That doesn’t make any sense. Why ‘cell’ phone?}

The Medium just shrugged.

{Well, anyway . . . Apparently the switchboard operators are all on a permanent powder break, because none of the calls being made are connecting. The cars are gone, too, so you would think that explained everything, but . . . The neighbor is sure he saw lights on last night, even though he remembers that both cars were gone. I remember that, because two cars? They must be rolling in more dough than a clumsy baker. And, get this, that same neighbor noticed the back door was left wide open. Probably all night,} Detoby said emphatically.

“So what makes them so sure this was a disappearance?” Dipper incisively asked after this had been reported to him.

{There was this pad of sketches they found on the table. It’s not there anymore—they must’ve taken that straight to HQ—so I didn’t see it. But the way they’re all talking about it . . . You’d think it was a mutilated body they found. Every officer who saw it is _dead_ _certain_ the girl was abducted. One even said that looking at it made him more nauseous than anything he’s ever seen on the job before.}

Dipper pursed his lips on hearing this. “Wish we could see it . . .”

“You wanna be nauseous?”

“Heh. No, but it might be able to tell us something about whatever we’re up against . . . Too bad we can’t get a copy like we did of that text . . .”

“F-for all the good it’s doing us,” Norman muttered. “Tal mn nfac . . .”

“Well, maybe our research today will give us a clue. To the internet! Let’s scroll!”

****

“—and that’s when you come in, right Mabes? Mabes? Mabel!” Grenda snapped a finger at her.

Blinking, the girl in the goth sweater focused back on the present. “Huh?”

“Are you even paying attention, Mabes? You’re the one who suggested we should resume planning the Boy-Band-Clones Liberation, but you keep zoning out.”

Candy gestured to their schematic of the Gravity Falls Civic Center and Buffet. “We are at the stage of the plan where you use your grappling hook to surmount the walls, and then lower us down into the courtyard.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, gal pals, I’m just . . . I gotta lot on my mind right now . . .”

“You wanna talk about it?” Grenda asked.

“No. Yes . . . Maybe? _Blarg_!” Mabel buried her face in her bezazzled arms. “It’s just . . . Pacifica and the other two . . . Doesn’t the fact we all kinda wished for this make us maybe _kinda_ responsible?”

Adjusting her glasses, Candy considered that. “I do not believe so. A wish is just a wish.”

“Yeah!” Grenda nodded. “Unless you like did something specific to make all this happen, you’re not responsible. You didn’t give their addresses out to weird strangers, or watch someone’s kidnapping van for them while they ran off to grab a person-sized sac, did you?”

“What does a kidnapping van even look like?” Candy asked.

“White. No windows. Maybe one of those pervy decal stickers with an angel-woman and a deveil-woman on the back (only real low-class pervs put those on their cars).”

“Ah . . . Grenda, you are _so_ wise.”

“It’s true. I am.”

Mabel shook her head. “I didn’t do anything like that, but . . . Dipstick thinks it’s not a _person_ doing it—thinks it’s some sorta supernatural thing taking kids. So _what_ _if_ like . . . a wish was _enough_? They were all real mean to me real recently. Even that grand goth that disappeared. So what if my wish did all this?”

“Did you wish for them to disappear?”

“P-probably . . .” Mabel bit her lip, and then looked away. “I was in a bad enough place . . . So, um . . . I think maybe . . . I’m should start helping Dip investigate whatever’s going on tomorrow?”

“Even with Norman there?” Grenda pressed.

Blowing out an angry sigh, Mabel nodded. “If I have to, I guess.”

“Oh, _poor_ you!” Grenda teased. “Hanging out with a cute boy who might have magic powers.”

“He’s not _magic_, he’s _psychic_!” the sweater-clad girl insisted hotly. “And he’s not even _psychic_, because he’s _a fake_! And he’s not even cute.”

“I think he’s cute,” Grenda declared resolutely. “He has really pretty blue eyes, and his biggish ears are totes adorable. Besides, you know what they say about a man with biggish ears.”

“Um . . . Actually, I have no idea.”

“Nor I,” Candy admitted.

“Oh . . .” Grenda looked a little crestfallen. “Neither do I. I was hoping you guys did, because Mom’s always saying that. Well, anyway, I think he’s cute.”

Mabel made a face, but Candy looked thoughtful. “He is not unattractive,” the Korean girl decided judiciously. “By my estimation, he might be among the . . . _five_ cutest boys in our class.”

“Oh? And who’s cutest ‘by your estimation’?” Grenda inquired knowingly. “I bet I can guess.”

“You don’t know me,” Candy asserted defiantly. She even almost blushed, but not quite.

“Oh, I _so_ know you. You think you can keep it under _hats_, but I know that you _pine_ for him . . . You think about taking long walks under the _stars_, counting the _constellations_ . . . You think about dancing with him, and want him to _dip_ you and kiss you . . .”

“You don’t know me,” Candy asserted again, though somewhat more blushingly than before.

Mabel sighed. She knew they were talking about her brother, but she said nothing. She knew half the fun for them was thinking they had kept it secret from her. “But still,” she murmured to herself, “Candy can do _so_ much better than Dipstick. . .”

****

Cracking his knuckles, Dipper began typing. “So . . . ‘state of oregon’—”

{Those really should be capitalized,} Detoby said over Norman’s shoulder.

“What are you? The grammar police?”

“Huh?” Dipper glanced around at his friend.

“Not you. Detoby.”

“Oh. And ‘missing children’ . . . Search.”

{Well, you don’t want the switchboard operators to think you’re illiterate, do you?}

“The internet doesn’t work that way.”

“Huh?”

“Not you. Detoby.”

“Oh . . . This search is really taking a while . . .”

“S-sorry, yeah,” Norman apologized automatically. “Dad’s been g-grouching about it all week. Internet speed, cell phone reception—everything electronic’s been acting weird lately . . .”

From her spot on (or slightly above) the sofa, Elaine grumbled, {As if he had anything more important than fantasy football to look up . . .}

{Fantasy football?} the Jokergeist inquired.

{Don’t ask me what it is. I have less than no clue.}

As the results filtered onto the screen, Dipper wondered, “You think there’s a connection?”

“No, otherwise th-there’d be no trouble getting on the internet,” Norman quipped shyly.

Dipper snorted. “Heh. I see what you did there.”

Elaine gagged. {He’s been hanging out with you too much, Detoby.}

{Too much or not enough, fair lady?}

“Here we go!” Dipper said as page finally finished loading. “Dot gov. Sounds legit . . .” And, after another few seconds of loading, he murmured, “Wow. Most of these are older than we are . . .”

{Speak for yourself, boyo.}

“Except for Detoby and your grandma, of course,” Dipper added on his own.

{Thank you.}

{Uh . . . yeah. Thanks. I guess,} Elaine agreed uncertainly.

But after clicking on a few pages, the behatted boy made a sound of disgust. “There’s so little information here! Almost _nothing_ about when and where, or even who! And there’s gotta be more missing kids than—what?—forty since . . . what? 1969? And look, Pacifica and the others aren’t even listed here yet! This is . . . This is _inexcusable_!”

“M-maybe try a different site?” Norman suggested. “There’s gotta be something.”

As he back-clicked, Dipper agreed, “Yeah, maybe. But still . . . How is there nothing—_nothing_!—up-to-date for missing children—and even missing persons in general—from the _state_ _government_? There should be, like, a government site that gets updated _daily_ with this information. For every state.”

“There’s really nothing?”

Gesturing at the search results again, Dipper stated disparagingly, “Nothing that looks _reputable_. I mean, surely this would be a better service to the public good than studying fricative cow farts and fecund monkey poop!”

{Language!} Elaine reprimanded the behatted boy automatically. Not that he could hear.

“Th-they’re _not_ swears!” Norman defended his (slightly confused) friend. “They just . . . s-sound like swears. Which is what makes them . . . f-funny . . .”

Meanwhile, Detoby was in a state of high dudgeon. {They spend tax-payer money on what?! Calvin Coolidge must be spinning in his modestly-apportioned grave!}

“Who?” Norman and Elaine both asked.

{President Calvin Coolidge. He didn’t waste words, and he didn’t waste tax-payer money. He got that he wasn’t his money to waste.}

“Hmm . . . Well, anyway . . .”

“What am I missing?” Dipper pressed eagerly.

“Just a history lesson.”

{And a scolding for inappropriate-sounding language!} Elaine inserted hurriedly.

“Er . . .” the Medium decided to ignore that part. “L-let’s try adding ‘fog’ to the search, now . . . Might not bring up anything official, but . . .”

“Can’t hurt. And . . . Whoa . . .” Dipper gaped when the first item appeared.

{591 missing children in the state of Oregon?!} the Jokergeist read incredulously. {Normally, I try to crack jokes at everything, but . . . There’s just nothing funny about that . . . My god . . .}

{So many?} Incredulous, Elaine was drawn over to see for herself. {Their poor mothers . . .}

{Their poor fathers,} Detoby added. {And siblings. And kinfolk. And poor them, too.}

“Keep s-scrolling,” Norman recommended. “M-maybe what we’re looking for isn’t in the top search results?”

“Okay, but how far do we have to look? It says there are over ten million results?”

“A few pages, at least . . .”

The poor connection made the search slow, but around the eleventh page, Detoby practically leaped through the monitor. {There! Go back! Tell him to go back!}

“Detoby says to go back!” Norman shouted involuntarily in excitement.

“Where? What’d he see?”

{It was . . . It was . . . Here! This story!}

Norman leaned over Dipper’s shoulder to read, realized that his face was less than inches from Dipper’s, blushed, and jolted back a little.

{No fooling, Bugaboo!} the Jokergeist said, mistaking the Medium’s reaction for horrified shock. {It knocked my socks right off, too!}

But Dipper, oblivious to either, read aloud, “Fifth Child Lost in Fog. And this is from the . . . Ashland Daily Tidings . . . in 2009 . . .”

Clicking on the link opened a somber story about five children (ages 11-13) who had seemingly wandered off into the fog one week in December 2009 and disappeared without a trace: Hannah Kaiser (age 12, last seen December 6th), George Selick (age 11, last seen December 7th), Aankha Neal (age 13, last seen December 8th), Wyborn Lovat (age 12, last seen December 9th), and Coraline Jones (age 12, last seen December 10th).

“O-one day after the other,” Norman whispered.

“Y-yeah . . .”

{And in a fog, too,} Detoby added, pointing to the word on the screen.

“R-right. Detoby says it was in a w-week-long fog, too . . .”

“Which lifted after that last girl—Coraline? That must be a typo of Caroline—disappeared,” Dipper pointed out excitedly. “See right there? ‘The fog finally broke late this morning (December 11th), allowing search and rescue to begin air searches of nearby Siskiyou Mountain Park’.”

{But did the disappearances stop when the fog passed?} Detoby wondered aloud.

After having the question put to him, Dipper searched the Daily Tidings’ archives for “disappearances”, but found nothing more recent than a follow-up story from a month later. The kids were still missing then. There were still no leads. “Looks like whatever it was did stop with the fog . . . _Weird_ . . .”

Unfortunately, looking at the specific articles regarding each child’s disappearance revealed little of value. “B-but it looks like they all disappeared after dark . . .” Norman realized.

“Hmm . . . George Selick seems to have disappeared between a restaurant where his family ate, and a theatre where they were going to see a movie . . . Just ran off, all of a sudden, according to this . . . Wyborn Lovat went out bike riding one afternoon. Going to a friend’s. Alone. And never came back . . . Aankha Neal was convinced a Russian spy was chasing her—”

{_Bolsheviks_! Didn’t I say you can never trust a Bolshie?!}

Elaine sighed. {Here we go again . . .}

“Does it say _why_ she thought that?” Norman asked, trying to ignore Detoby.

“Nope. But, according to this, she _did_ _not_ have a history of psychiatric problems, so that makes everything—her sudden paranoia—even weirder . . .”

Norman bit his lip. “A _Russian_ spy?” he repeated in utter bafflement.

{Red as the vile beets which they ingest! And twice as shifty!}

“That doesn’t even make sense,” the Medium muttered (both to the Jokergeist and to the idea of a Russian spy pursuing a thirteen-year-old girl). “And why Russian and not . . . any other nationality?”

“And the other two . . .” Dipper continued his research. “Parents were having date night for one, and parents were both working for the other—the Caroline girl.”

“S-sounds a little like the people who disappeared here.”

The behatted boy nodded seriously. “Sounds a lot like them.”

{So what are the connections?} the Jokergeist asked rhetorically. He then counted off on his transparent fingers, {Heebie-jeebie fog, young kiddos gone missing without a trace after dark . . .}

“That’s all we know that connects them—that kids went missing in a weird fog after dark,” Norman added.

“Yeah . . . Everything I’m seeing here says that people thought they just got lost . . . Nothing in the papers about someone kidnapping them—I mean, beyond some speculation that maybe that’d explain . . . it . . .” Dipper said with a vague gesture. “But, except for that one girl thinking a Russian spy was after her for some reason, there doesn’t seem to have been anything like Pacifica or that goth . . .”

{Well . . . nuts. Fat load of help, this.}

“You said it . . . Maybe we should t-try seeing if anything else comes up for Oregon?”

After making some quick notes of their findings, Dipper clicked back to the search engine and advanced as far as the 50th page before quitting. Nothing new had appeared.

“M-maybe a different state?” Norman suggested. “If it happened outside of Gravity Falls, then it might’ve happened outside of Oregon, too. And we might find something more definite there . . .”

“So . . . what? We search in every state? All fifty of them?”

With a slight smile, Norman reminded him, “Sometimes investigating things is serious work.”

“Graaa!” Dipper retorted, and then began searching through Washington.

“Don’t f-forget Alaska and Hawaii after that.”

“Graaa!”

{Those are states now? Since when? And what good is Alaska to us—to US, rather?} the Jokergeist quickly (and quipply) corrected himself. He honked his horn to make sure everyone noticed.

Norman shrugged. “Oil? Gold? Cheap and plentiful caribou meat?”

{Ah . . . I can now see the value of their natural resources,} Detoby declared. {It was caribou that got us through trench life during the Great War.}

Elaine blinked. {Seriously?}

{The caribou is nature’s noblest and tastiest animal. I would never jest about it.}

Without turning around, Dipper asked his friend, “Why are you talking about caribou meat?”

“B-because Alaska has it in p-plentiful supply. Also salmon,” Norman replied.

“You’re so _weird_,” the behatted boy snorted. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

For one, golden moment, the world seemed to stop. Not like the other times this had seemed to happen—moments of supreme terror or sorrow when the brain could not process all of the bad at once. It was different now; there was just too much good for Norman’s brain to process.

“Y-yeah . . .” the Medium eventually faltered, glad Dipper (tapping and clicking away at the computer) and Detoby (focused in on the search results) had their backs to him. Glad Dipper especially couldn’t see the flush creeping into his face. “Me too . . .”

Elaine noticed, however, and she smiled to herself. {Maybe I should leave you boys to your investigation?} she suggested. {It’s time for my stories anyway.}

“Y-you don’t have to go, Grandma,” Norman protested.

{Oh, you both look like you have it in hand without me grandmotherhenning over your shoulder. Care to _join_ _me_, Detoby?} she hinted.

{I would love to, my sweet, but my _keen_ journalist instincts are probably needed here!} he said with oblivious zeal. {Nothing’s better at being nosy than an already dead journalist!}

{Yes, _apparently_ . . .} she sighed, passing through the wall.

Nothing of value to the investigation turned up in their first-fifty-results search of Washington, Alaska, or Hawaii. In California, however, some reports of children gone missing in a fog did turn up from the local newspaper of a town called Endsville.

“Looks like we got more-or-less the same thing,” Dipper surmised. “On . . . October 13th, 2010, Irwin Tutula (12) vanished without a trace . . . And, yep, there was a bizarre fog all that day, too. Endsville is really far inland. They hardly ever get fog beyond a few miles inland.”

{What’s the skinny on when this kid up and poofed?}

“Detoby asks if there’re any details on how this Irwin kid vanished,” the Medium transmitted. “Or, at least, I think that’s what he’s asking. I’m, like, 80% certain . . .”

Dipper skimmed the article. “Well . . . apparently he thought he was going to die all of a sudden. According to this, all that day he kept saying the Grim Reaper was following him everywhere.”

“The G-Grim Reaper?”

“That’s what it says he said. And it was all out of the blue, too. ‘Uncharacteristic of a normally upbeat child’,” he quoted. “But get this: that night, during one of California’s routine power outages—”

“Routine power outages?” Norman repeated questioningly.

“Yeah. You get used to it. Anyway, during the power outage, he suddenly fled his family’s home. Screaming about the Grim Reaper, of course. And then it says there was _a weird flash_,” Dipper read emphatically. “And no one ever saw him again after that.”

{Another weird flash?}

“Sound familiar?” Dipper asked.

Norman gulped. “Y-yeah . . . What about the next day?”

“A kid named Frederick Fritzburger (11) disappeared. Then Jose Delgado (13) the night after . . . Seems he was a ‘supernatural enthusiast . . . who liked to pretend he hunted monsters’ . . . Apparently, he told his friends he thought a ‘wendigo’ was stalking him.”

“What’s a wendigo?”

“It’s a monster in Native American legends, I think,” Dipper recalled vaguely. “Eats human flesh. Always hungry, so it’s usually really thin—like a skeleton, I guess. Kind of a Native American vampire.”

“Yikes . . .”

Dipper nodded. “No kidding. This says everyone thought he was just role-playing in a game, but then he . . . well, he disappeared. After that was Billy Dimawitz (13) on October 16th, Mandy Mechante (13) on the 17th, and finally Damian Nergal Jr. (12) on the 18th.”

{All in a fog?}

“Looks like it. All in a fog,” Norman added for Dipper’s benefit. “Was that the last one?”

A quick search of the archives revealed that it was. The fog lifted on October 19th, but the kids were never found. Some suspected a child predator took them, others that aliens took them.

{Aliens as in . . . immigrants?} Detoby asked uncertainly.

“As in people from outer space,” the Medium explained. “But don’t read too much into that. These are Californians, after all. N-no offense,” he added.

With a shrug, Dipper said, “None taken. At this point, though . . . I’m starting to think maybe . . .”

“Aliens? Seriously?”

As he jotted down the details of Endsville, the behatted boy insisted, “Bizarre disappearances. Sudden paranoia in the victims. Strange lights. I’m not saying it was aliens, but . . .”

They then returned to the search engine, but nothing else turned up in the state of California. In fact, no other results appeared in any state until they reached Colorado.

“The Whisperer. From . . . Whispering Rock?” Norman read from the local newspaper.

“Yeah. It’s like small towns are legally required to have corny puns for their newspapers.”

“Not that—although it is painful on a level only Detoby has yet reached,” Norman conceded.

{Hey!}

“It’s that I . . . I’ve heard about this town somewhere before . . .”

{You have?}

“Why?” Dipper asked. “Where? When? And . . . um . . . Wherefore?”

“Th-that actually means ‘why’. Try ‘how’,” Norman suggested.

“How?”

{Don’t forget ‘with whom?’!} Detoby interjected.

Norman bit his lip. “I think I . . . was invited to a c-camp there once? But I couldn’t go because money was tight, and it was half-way across the country? Yeah,” he added more confidently. “That’s it. Was weird, getting an invitation like that. That’s why I remember . . .”

“Why would they invite you all the way from Massachusetts?”

With a shrug, the Medium said, “N-no idea. Like I said, it was weird.”

“Hmm . . .” Dipper clicked through the Whisperer’s stories, and it was gradually revealed that Bobby Zilch (13) disappeared from a local summer camp late on August 2nd of 2012. It was also believed that he had wandered off into an unseasonal fog.

{Fog again . . . And in Colorado? That does not square . . .} Detoby intoned.

“And the next day?” Norman asked. “There was one the next day, too, wasn’t there?

“Yep,” Dipper confirmed soberly. “That’d be Benny Fideleo (12). Again, they thought he got lost wandering around in the fog. Probably looking for Bobby, it says; seems they were friends. And then . . . Lili Zanotto (12). And then . . . Rasputin Aquato (12). Who names these kids?”

{This coming from the kid named ‘Dipper’,} Detoby muttered.

“Remember, though, that’s not his actual name,” the Medium reminded the Jokergeist.

Dipper glanced up. “Huh?”

“Your real name’s not Dipper. W-what is your real name, anyway?” Norman asked shyly.

“You’ll never know,” the behatted boy asserted. “Not even if you outlive me, because it will _not_ be on my tombstone. So can we focus back on the case?”

“C’mon, you can tell us. It’s not something embarrassing like . . . I d-dunno. ‘Roderick’, is it?”

“_It seems_,” Dipper pressed on doggedly, “Rasputin Aquato was convinced that a ‘top G Man’ was pursuing them all. Whatever that means . . .”

{A government agent,} Detoby stated at once. {Like a . . . Revenuer, for example.}

“Detoby says that means a government agent,” the Medium transmitted.

“Like . . . with the FBI?” Suddenly excited, Dipper asked, “Do you think this could be another government conspiracy? Do you think it could go all the way to the top?”

Dubiously, Norman repeated. “All the way to the top? Like . . . the Mayor?”

“Like the Shadow President of the United States!”

“Um . . . And that is?”

“The real power in Washington, of course. Don’t tell me you honestly believe George W. Bush or Barak Obama actually _won_ the presidency,” Dipper scoffed at his friend’s naivety. “They’re both puppets (and obvious ones, too) of the Shadow President—keeping us distracted from what’s really going on!”

The Jokergeist cocked an eyebrow that only the Medium could see. {Does it occur to you, Bugaboo, that we might need a whole toolbox for this? Because your friend clearly has more than just a screw loose.}

Norman snorted. “S-so . . . what’s really, er . . . going on?”

“I’ve heard eleven different credible theories, though I suspect that five of them are plants by agents of the Shadow President,” the behatted boy said knowingly. “Y’know, to muddy the waters.”

“And . . . y-you think these f-fog disappearances could be c-connected?”

“Maybe. Think about it: one person thinks it’s a Russian spy, and another thinks it’s the FBI. Sounds a bit like those ‘Men in Black’ creature-persons that show up to keep people from talking about alien activity.”

“Yeah, but another person thought it was the G-Grim Reaper,” Norman interjected. “Or a . . . a bendiego, I guess?”

“Wendigo,” Dipper corrected his friend.

“R-right. Would a-any of those be working for the . . . Shadow President?” And Norman was extremely proud of himself for being able to say that with a straight face.

“It’s . . . not impossible . . .”

Still with a straight face, Norman asked, “Like the aliens?”

“_Not impossible_,” Dipper repeated staunchly. “It’s hard to know what a secret government is concocting, what with it being secret and all.”

The straight face began to crack. “So now we have to worry about the Illuminati, too?”

Dipper folded his arms. “They are obviously a plant to distract people away from the real secret government conspiracies. Obviously. Think about it: if you wanted to secretly rule the world, would you go out of your way to put clues of your existence everywhere? Like on dollar bills? No, you wouldn’t. Because that would be a _stupid_ way to remain _secret_. But it would be a _clever_ way to distract people who are (and let me emphasize this point) _stupid_ away from the real secret government.”

{He’s obviously given this a lot of thought. A disturbing amount of thought.}

Norman nodded. “Uh huh.”

“I’m glad you agree with me,” the behatted boy said obliviously. “Now, I haven’t _heard_ of any of these things the victims thought they saw (except for the government agents and the aliens) in any of the eleven theories, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t involved . . .”

“Wait . . . You think we’re up against all of these at once?” Norman asked incredulously.

Dipper pursed his lips. “Maybe, but . . . Given the similarities (children, fog, night) . . . And even that the descriptions of whatever’s taking them could all be kinda similar if you think about it—”

“Huh?”

{I second that.}

“Well, think about it,” Dipper reasoned. “Describe an FBI agent.”

“Er . . . T-tall, black suit, maybe sunglasses . . . No expression . . . Scary . . .”

Norman stopped. That nagging sense that he was missing something really obvious was back and stronger than ever.

Meanwhile, the behatted boy continued, “Which sounds a bit like a spy to me. Maybe that’s what the whole Russian thing means? Tall. Dark suit. Grim, really scary expression. And the Grim Reaper is the same thing. And I guess maybe a wendigo could be, too? What if they’re all seeing the same thing, but describing it differently?”

Norman could almost hear himself say what he had been missing all along—feel the thought almost forming in his brain. It was so close! So close . . .

And then the door burst open and Courtney came in. Giggling loudly. With a boy whose arm was around her waist. Laughing loudly. And several other people her age. Also laughing loudly.

The thought evaporated, and Norman grimaced in exasperation. “Fricative, Courtney!”

“What’s that, l’il bro?” Courtney called from the base of the stairs.

“I almost had it, and you made me forget!”

“Forget what?”

“Yeah, what?” Dipper echoed.

“Besides, weren’t you supposed to come straight home?” Norman challenged his sister.

“And I did. For a given value of straight.”

The others with her laughed at that.

“If Dad asks, though, I came with you. And then, later, my friends came over. He can’t be mad about that,” she declared triumphantly. “Safety in numbers, right?”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because nothing’s safer than a house full of teenagers when there’s a monster running loose,” he muttered. “No movies disprove that hypothesis at all.”

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me!” Courtney larked. “But don’t need me, or you’re dead!”

Norman sighed heavily as the older teens vanished.

“I know, right?” Dipper sympathized.

{Oh, you two know nothing until you raise them,} Detoby assured the boys.

“Anyway, where were we? Oh, right,” the behatted boy recalled. “It might just be one thing taking children.”

{Under the direction of the Shadow President,} the Jokergeist quipped dryly. And the Medium faithfully transmitted it (tone and all).

“Possibly, but not for certain. Anyway, looks like this Razputin kid wasn’t the last disappearance in Whispering Rock. Seems the last one was Maloof Canola—the day after Rasputin. Looks like they all went to this same summer camp, too.”

“Does it say what the summer camp was called?”

“Just ‘Camp Whispering Rock’,” Dipper replied. “Was that the camp?”

“I think so . . .”

“Guess it’s a really good thing you didn’t go, huh?”

{No fooling,} Detoby agreed. {Not even from me.}

“Y-yeah . . . W-why would they even invite me?” Norman wondered aloud.

Dipper made a quick search for “camp whispering rock”, but found next to nothing online. Only a few local reviews (which dubiously gave the camp five stars), the stories from the Whisperer about the disappearances, and the announcement that it was to be closed indefinitely. However, when he typed “whispering rock” into the search engine, he found several webpages boasting that Whispering Rock was the most psychic city in the United States.

“Think it has something do with this? I mean, you are psychic.”

“No, I’m _not_,” Norman countered irritably. “I just see the fecund dead. That’s all. Yeesh.”

{You got the jeepers peepers.}

“Exactly!”

Muttering to himself, “Sounds psychic to me . . .” Dipper clicked away from Colorado.

Nearly two hours later (after Sandra returned home from her part-time job at the florist, made a plate of applesauce cookies appear—from some hidden recess her husband would never know about—for the boys, and started dinner), the internet search took them to Cityburgh in Michigan. There, in February of 2011, five more children had disappeared in a fog. First had been Zimothy Envazir (13) on the 17th, then his adopted brother Edgir Rubut (11) on the 18th. Following them was Dibforce Mothman (13) and his twin Gazolynn Mothman on the 19th and 20th respectively. Finally, one Takquiline Di Sguizo (13) had vanished on the 21st. Apparently, both Zimothy and Dibforce had started insisting that their teacher’s brother was stalking them on the respective days they disappeared. Investigation by the authorities had revealed, however, that one Miz Mara Bitters had no brothers.

“Gah! Look at her! She looks like a vampire that sucks the blood of vampires,” Dipper observed.

“Yep . . . So . . . Your real name’s not ‘Dipforce’ is it?” Norman asked teasingly.

“Thank the gods, no. All gods. Any gods.”

“Anything weird about Cityburgh?”

“You mean, besides the fact that its name means ‘City City’? Well, I do already know that’s it’s supposed to have the most UFO sightings of anywhere in the United States . . .” Dipper recalled.

Genuinely surprised, Norman asked, “Really? Huh. I would’ve thought that was Roswell.”

“No, Roswell is like . . . number seven in the US.”

{UFO?} Detoby asked uncertainly.

“So . . . Aliens again?” the Medium snorted.

“Like any sensible person, I recognize I cannot definitively rule out extraterrestrial involvement. Ergo, I do not dismiss it out of hand,” Dipper countered sanctimoniously.

“Busting out the ‘ergo’ guns, are we? I m-must’ve hit a nerve,” Norman teased him shyly.

“Hell (the town in Norway) yes. So even if _I do not believe_ these disappearances are the result of alien abductions,” Dipper began emphatically, “I do _not_ scoff at the idea as impossible.”

“‘Scoff’, now? Ha. My apologies for offending you, sir,” Norman replied with mock remorse.

“You are forgiven. This one time. Carry on.”

“Er . . . You’re the one at the computer,” Norman reminded him.

“Oh. Right. Well, I think we’re onto Ohio now . . .”

To the surprise of no one, there was nothing of interest in Ohio. Nor will there ever be.

It was about then that Perry wearily returned home from work. Nevertheless, in passing his son, he tousled Norman’s hair (which popped indomitably right back into place afterwards). “Hey, son. Whatcha working on there?”

“Er. . .”

“Just some school-related stuff, Mister Babcock” Dipper answered for him—an answer which Dipper considered to be technically true.

“R-right,” Norman agreed nervously.

Detoby laughed aloud and honked his horn in delight. {You tricky little devils!}

“Sounds . . . educational,” Perry said. “You know when dinner is?”

From the kitchen, Sandra called, “Ten minutes!”

“How does she do that? Well . . . you and sister stay safe today?” Perry asked his son genuinely.

“Of c-course. Why?”

A shadow crossed the grown man’s face. “Heard there was another disappearance. Another kid. Right out of her own home, too, by the sound of it. Makes me worry about you and Courtney. I tried calling both of you—”

“My phone never rang!” Norman protested quickly.

“Yeah. Calls wouldn’t go through. Still. Might have to worry about changing coverage plans, too. On top of everything else . . .” Perry grumbled. “Well, I’ll let you two get back to your homework . . .”

As his father lumbered away, Norman squirmed uncomfortably. “S-sorry about that.”

“About what?” Dipper asked.

“N-nothing. Where were we?” the Medium asked hurriedly.

“Kentucky. Home of at least one derby, and at least twelve thousand guys named Earl.”

{Have you ever noticed that redneck bumpkins tend to have oddly incongruous names? Such as ‘Earl’ or ‘Duke’—both of which are aristocratic titles?} Detoby observed. {And then there’s also ‘Leroy’, which means ‘ze king’ in Frog-speak. Can’t forget ‘Beauregard’, either. That one means ‘good looking’, though I’ve never met anyone named Beauregard who didn’t look like he’d been beaten with an Ugly Club. And then stomped on with some Ugly Boots.}

Norman snorted before sharing that with Dipper.

{Even had a cousin named Beauregard. Misshapen little toad of a man,} the Jokergiest added pityingly. {Poor fella never inherited the Determined good looks—not like _mwa_.}

As the search continued, the boys found the odd disappearance here and there in the states that followed. But it was not until Connecticut (an hour or two after an uneventful dinner which was only mildly embarrassing for Norman) that they found the next string of fogbound disappearances. In a town called Amity Park.

“Amity Park?” Norman repeated slowly. “I know that place . . . It’s s-supposed to be like the most haunted town in America.”

“Really? You ever been there?”

“No, but I heard some of the ghosts in Blithe Hollow talk about it. G-ghosts actually . . . well, they gossip . . . a lot. Like, a fricative ton,” the Medium admitted with a guilty glance at the Jokergeist.

{Forgive us if our social calendars are less than lively. We don’t have much else to do most of the time but talk,} Detoby inserted defensively.

Examining the stories, Dipper surmised, “Looks like the disappearances in Amity Park were the earliest so far—June of 2009. There was . . . Dash Baxter (15) on the 10th, Paulina Canals Barrera (15) after that—”

“The next day?”

“Yep. Like the others. Then Samantha Manson (14), Tucker Foley (14), and Daniel Fenton (14). Seems he was the last to disappear. And . . . yep, the fog cleared up the next day.”

“Anything w-weird?” Norman asked.

“You mean besides the unexplained and unsolved sequential disappearance of five kids?”

“Y-yes. That is exactly what I m-mean.”

“Well . . . It seems both Dash and Paulina were convinced a former student at their school was stalking them,” Dipper reported. “But it also seems that almost no one took them seriously. Not even after they disappeared. Because . . . Oh, this is _good_!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What?” both Norman and Detoby asked together.

“That former student was as _former_ as you could get—he had _died_ the year before!”

Both Norman and Detoby gasped.

“Or so everybody _believed_,” the behatted boy continued excitedly. “Since he _also_ disappeared!”

“In a f-fog, too?”

“Um . . .” Deflating slightly, Dipper admitted, “Not as _such_. Seems he was being treated in the local hospital for a disease that had caused him to go deaf and was . . . Wow. This is just sad. It was causing him to go blind, too . . . Left him all anemic and weak . . . chronically depressed . . . So, one day, he just up and walked out of the hospital when the nurses weren’t paying attention, and he was never seen again. It’s, uh, presumed he committed suicide, though his body was never found. Looks like they held a funeral and everything . . . Here’s the obituary . . .”

With a click, the image of a smiling but sad-looking boy slowly resolved on screen. He was gaunt to the point of being emaciated, pale, and bald from chemical treatments, yet wearing a rumpled suit. The image must have been cropped from a larger picture—perhaps a family portrait—because there seemed to be portions of two other person’s heads in the lower corners of the image.

{Mother of mercy . . .} Detoby sighed into his moustache. {Poor kid . . .}

Norman swallowed. “What was his name?”

“Eric Knudsen. He was only 14, too. In 2008, that is . . . The last kid, Daniel Fenton, apparently became obsessed with finding him . . . but kept talking like he was alive. Really confused the police. According to this article, at least, what with the sudden paranoia and the zero signs of foul play and the impossibility that this Eric Knudsen kid could still be alive . . .”

“That could explain the lack of footprints . . .” Norman conceded. “If he became a poltergeist . . . Still, it’s s-strange that he could move around the whole country like that.”

“Why?”

“W-well, usually ghosts don’t travel far. Not that they can’t—wait, didn’t I already tell you this?”

Dipper shrugged. “Maybe. Refresh my memory.”

“Okay. Um. Ghosts can leave the area where they . . . y’know, died. But they usually don’t. Usually have a strong, er, emotional connection to the place,” the Medium explained carefully. “Poltergeists especially, from what I’ve learned. It’s kinda unheard of for them to leave whatever place is their . . . y’know, their anchor—where they died, or a place they loved or hated while alive. That’s why you get haunted houses with so much ghost activity even years after the family and everyone else has moved away. Poltergeists . . . just don’t go very far. They just _don’t_,” he repeated emphatically.

“But could they?” Dipper asked leadingly.

“Well . . .”

Detoby cleared his throat. {Ask him if he could dance the cancan in front of the entire school. While naked.}

“W-what?!” Norman stammered, a blush rising in his cheeks.

{Ask him!} the Jokergeist insisted. {I guarantee you he’ll say no. He could never do that—not mentally—even though he’s physically capable of doing it.}

Almost as red as his sweater, Norman cleared his throat. “D-Detoby has a question. I just want to make it clear that this is D-Detoby asking you, and _not_ m-me. Could you . . . er . . . d-dance the cancan in front of the entire school while nagum . . .”

Dipper leaned forward. “Sorry? What was that?”

“While nadumid . . .”

“You keep trailing off. What are you saying?”

“N-not _me_. _Detoby_.”

“Fine. What is _he_ saying?”

“While . . . naked.”

Dipper grimaced. “No, of course I couldn’t. What kinda question is that?”

{A rhetorical one!} Detoby said with a triumphant honk.

“A rhetorical one,” Norman transmitted. “D-Detoby says you would n-ever do that, even though you c-could. Physique. Er, physically. You’re c-capable of it, even if you’re not capable of it. You s-see?”

“I guess . . . But, if it is the ghost of this kid, he _could_ still do it, right?”

Biting his lip, the Medium considered the question and the picture of Eric Knudsen. For some reason he could not quite explain, things didn’t fit. This Eric Knudsen kid just didn’t look like a poltergeist to him. Or a demon. Or a monster. Or whatever had been snatching kids in the fog. He just . . . didn’t . . . But why? That question bothered the Medium almost as much as whatever had been nagging him. Maybe it even _was_ whatever had been nagging him . . .

“Well?” Dipper prompted.

A frustrated shrug. “Anything is p-_possible_ I guess.”

The Jokergeist snorted to himself. {Just like he can give his clothes a shrug and start cutting a rug whenever he feels like it.}

Norman chose not to convey that message, though his lips did curl upward.

“Maybe—assuming it _is_ this kid’s ghost—the fog is his . . . what was the word? Anchor?”

Norman gave another shrug. “M-maybe. I d-don’t think that’s it, though.”

“Why not?”

“J-just . . . doesn’t seem right to me . . .”

“Hmm . . .”

{Hmm indeed.}

“S-sorry,” the Medium apologized to both the living and the dead. “Maybe I could put my finger on it if I wasn’t so tired, y’know?”

Dipper glanced at the monitor clock, and then blinked in surprise. “Wow. Yeah. We’ve been going at this for like . . . five hours. No wonder my back is so sore . . .”

{I never have back problems—not since I got that flat pine board to sleep on every night. And every day!} Detoby jested with a reflexive honk of his horn.

Meanwhile, Dipper rose stiffly and, with both hands, stretched his lower back forward. Suddenly, there was a rolling crack down his vertebrae—prerprerprerprerp!— and his eyes went round.

“Yughahaha!” Norman spazzed and laughed at the same time. “Gross, dude!”

The behatted boy slumped forward onto his knees with a little groan.

“D-Dipper?” his friend asked worriedly.

“That . . . hurt . . . so . . . good! You gotta try it, man! It was amazing!”

{Oh no! You boys are way too young to be popping like someone’s grandfather—grandpapa!} the Jokergeist corrected himself quickly. {No! Grandpopping! You’re too young to be grandpopping! Ha!}

“Yeah, I’m gonna side with Detoby on this one,” the Medium decided prudently. “I’m not gonna try something which you specifically say hurts.”

Heaving himself upward, Dipper countered, “Yeah, but in a good way, y’know?”

“N-not really.”

All business, the behatted boy circled behind his friend with the declaration. “Here, I’ll show ya. Just leave your feet where they are and your shoulders where they are, then push your belly forward.” And, to help his friend discover the joys of back-cracking, he helpfully placed his hands against the small of his friend’s back.

Of course, Norman bolted forward like he’d been shocked—crimson in the face, half-giggling and half-crying out. “N-nohoho! St-stop!”

Dipper eyed his friend perplexedly. And then realization dawned in his eyes. “Wait a minute . . .”

“W-what?” Norman asked defensively.

“Whenever I touch you, you go all . . . squirrelly . . .”

{Squirrellier than a rodent convention!} Detoby inserted.

“N-no, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do,” Dipper contradicted him slowly. “Every time . . .”

Dread, panic, horror; none of these words could capture the sudden fear which Norman felt. Over—it was all over! Dipper had finally figured _it_ out! _It_! The horribly unspeakable _it_! And now, Norman felt like he was drowning in ice water. “You’re c-crazy . . .” he stammered. “Imagining th-things . . .”

“Oh my heck! How did I not see this before?” Dipper exclaimed.

Weakly, Norman protested, “N-nothing to see . . .”

Pointing straight at the Medium, “You’re—”

“No!”

“—ticklish, aren’t you?”

“No! I’m not g—wait. What?” Norman asked blankly.

A look of pure evil shone in Dipper’s eyes. His fingers were already waggling the air before him. Waggling at his future victim. “Of course! It’s so obvious that you’re ticklish!”

“I . . . What?”

The behatted boy advanced a step.

{If I might advise you, Bugaboo: run. Now.}

Another step.

Norman took a step back. “St-stay away from me!”

“Oh, I’ll stay away . . .” Dipper murmured ominously. “Stay away . . . forever!”

Baffled, Norman went, “Huh?”

“SNEAK ATTACK!” And the behatted boy dove at the Medium.

Quick reflexes saved Norman; he dodged, and then sprung forward to clamber over the couch. “St-stay away from me!”

But Dipper was circling the couch now. “You say that like you expect me to actually listen.”

“W-what happened to investigating being s-serious work?”

“Meh. We’re on break. Now it’s wrestling time.”

“I’m warning you! I can f-flail these noodle arms pretty hard!” Norman faltered desperately.

From another room, Sandra’s voice commanded, “NO ROUGHHOUSING INSIDE, BOYS!”

“WE’RE NOT ROUGHHOUSING, MISSUS BABCOCK!” Dipper shouted back respectfully. “IT’S JUST A TICKLE FIGHT!”

“AWWWW! THAT IS SO ADORABLE! I’LL GET THE CAMERA!”

“MOM! YOU TRAITOR!” Norman yelled at her.

Floating near the ceiling, Detoby decided, {My money’s on Dipping Sauce in this fight; he’s in it to win it. Hey, that’s not a bad line! I wonder if anyone else has ever said it . . .}

“Treacherous ghost,” the Medium muttered.

“That’s right . . .” The behatted boy grinned menacingly over the couch at his friend and victim. “No one’s coming to save you. You’re mine, now.”

Norman gulped. And then he made a lunge for the stairs—for the safety of his room! But Dipper dove again, and this time managed to catch one of his friend’s legs. They both tumbled to the ground, the former trying to scrabble to freedom, the latter clinging to the leg he had snagged!

“No! No!”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Get your tickle-crazy hands off me!”

“Accept your defeat like a man! Be tickled with honor!”

And then, with a ponderous sigh, the overhead lights were eclipsed. Perry stood over them.

Scientists would probably have said it was impossible, but Norman’s face actually turned redder than is visible to the human eye. He squeaked, “H-hey, Dad . . .”

“It’s getting really late, boys. Isn’t it about time Ripper went home? I’m sure his family must be really worried about him. Given all the kids disappearing, and all.”

Weakly, his son protested, “Dipper. And we haven’t f-finished the research—”

“Then what are you both doing on the floor?”

At that moment, however, Sandra bustled in. “They’re just being boys, Perry. Now, smile!” And, suddenly, there was a retina-searing flash.

“M-MOM!” her son objected while her husband groaned, “Gah! How many times I gotta tell you not to use the flash on that thing?! I won’t be able to see clearly for an hour!”

“Just capturing everyone in a natural pose!” she larked. “I suppose this means it’ll be me driving Dipper back home, doesn’t it? Well, I’ll just go grab my keys, then. You boys say goodbye while I do.” And, with that, she bustled back out.

{Um . . . Am I the only one who gets the sense that all of that was planned?}

Before the Medium could respond, Dipper was clambering back upright. “This isn’t over.”

“R-right . . . I can p-probably finish New England before going to bed,” Norman declared.

“Oh, that. Yeah. I was talking about something else, but good idea.”

Climbing up as well, Norman blinked in mild surprise. “Huh? What were you talking about?”

The same look of pure evil shone in the behatted boy’s eyes. “Oh, you’ll see . . .”

From the doorway, Sandra called, “Time to go, Dipper!”

Withdrawing straight backwards, he repeated menacingly, “You’ll see . . .”

A moment after the door shut, Perry cleared his throat. “Er . . . Your friend is kinda weird.”

“Y-yeah. I have noticed.”

“But he is your friend?”

“Well, yeah,” Norman replied nervously.

That seemed to be all Perry needed to hear. He nodded once and declared, “Good. I’m glad you’ve found a new friend.” Then he turned and lumbered up the stairs.

{Well . . . That happened,} Detoby eventually declared.

“Y-yeah . . . Um . . .” the Medium looked around vaguely, then shrugged. “I guess let’s go finish the research?”

****

In the Gleefuls’ immaculate kitchen, a plate of dinner sat. Untouched. Cold.

“Your mother and I are goin’ out tonight, Sugar Puddin’,” Bud Gleeful had, winking, told his son some hours ago. “We won’t be back for some time, no we won’t. One of those things you’ll un’erstand when you get a l’il older. We trust you to be by yoself, though. And there’s suppa for you in the kitchen.”

But it was untouched. Cold. Even though Gideon sat at the table.

“Let’s go, my dearest darlin’,” Bud Gleeful had cooed lovingly to his wife when they departed some hours ago.

“Just keep walkin’ . . . Just keep walking’ . . .” she had muttered to herself, not looking back.

“Enjoy yo suppa, my Son Shine! Your motha made your favorite!”

Yet it still remained untouched. Cold. Gideon never even glanced at it—not once the whole time he sat at the table. Reading and rereading the same page of 2.

Only when the lights flickered did he look up from it.

“Finally . . .” he grinned manically to himself. “I must admit, I was growin’ weary of your efforts to try and get inside my head—get me to think and feel crazy paranoid thoughts. Heh heh! Gahahaha! Foolish of you to try. Pointless. Annoyin’. Waste of my time!”

The kitchen was empty, however. Save for a plate of dinner on the table. Untouched. Cold.

The lights flickered again.

Gideon rose, meticulously closed the weathered journal he held, and slipped it into his suitcoat. “Of course, you’re too stupid to know I deal with your kind all the time. I’m no stranger to the paranormal and the supernatural. Ya’ll have no effect on a mind as strong—on a will as strong—as mine. Ya’ll can’t affect me like the sheep in this town. No. I’m a wolf. Arooo. Ha! Haha! You can’t frighten me—can’t make me lose my mind. Which is why I’m ready for you,” he whispered eagerly, and not at all in a crazy or paranoid way. “Come see who’s huntin’ who, my friend . . . Come see . . . Wahahaha . . .”

And then the lights went out altogether.

**LONELINESS**

“Hahaha! HAHAHAHAHA! That’s right, boy! Come tangle with a mind impervious to your power! One who’ll outwit you like a chessmaster and use you like a master puppeteer! Use you to get all I want! You can’t get inside my head! I’m not crazy! HAHAHA!”

And Gideon ran from the kitchen—ran to throw the front door wide open.

On the table, the plate of dinner still sat. Untouched. Cold.

Giggling uncontrollably to himself, Gideon stared out the empty door. Stared out into the fog and whispered laughingly, “Make sure you wipe your feet . . . Hehehe. . . Hahahaha . . .”

****

On the roads of Gravity Falls, the fog hung thickly. Perhaps that was why Sandra drove so slowly. If anyone had asked, that would surely have been her rationale. The fact that it gave her time to talk to her son’s new friend was purely coincidental. Not at all planned.

“So you and Norman seem to be getting along famously,” she commented.

Not sure how else to respond, Dipper said, “Er, yeah.”

“It’s not too hard having a friend who sometimes has to help ghosts, is it?”

“No. Actually, I think it’s really cool. I just wish . . .”

“You wish?”

“I just wish I could hear what was being said, too. Makes me feel a little left out sometimes.”

“Ah,” Sandra intoned comprehendingly.

“He tells me what the ghosts say,” the behatted boy added quickly. “But that’s not the same, y’know?”

“I’m glad he has a friend like you, Dipper—someone who . . . who understands how important his gift is. Who understands how hard he tries to share his gift with people. And how hard that is to do. Even with one of the rare and special people (like you) who understand he does have a gift to share,” Sandra added gently. “Who see how . . . how rare and special he is, too.”

Again, not being sure how to respond, the behatted boy went with, “Er, yeah . . .”

“He thinks _you_ are really cool, too. Did you know that?”

“Er, yeah . . . Turn right here.”

“I’m glad you do. It’s important that both people in a relationship—”

“Relationship?!” Dipper repeated, flabbergasted. “We’re just friends!”

“What do you think friendship is? It’s a kind of relationship. A rare and special relationship. Anyway, it’s important that both know that the other person respects and admires them.”

“Um . . . T-turn left here,” Dipper directed, hoping it would distract his new friend’s mom from this feelings discussion. “It’s just at the end of the road.”

“Just remember that. Even if he never manages to say it himself, Norman thinks you’re one of the coolest people he’s ever met,” Sandra concluded, pulling up outside the Mystery Shack. “I know guys have trouble saying things like that sometimes. My husband, for example—”

With forced brightness, Dipper tried to extricate himself from the car. “Okay!” But his seatbelt got tangled. “Good talking with you!” He tried to open the door just as she pushed the unlock button. Three times in a row. “See you tomorrow, probably!” He stumbled onto the ground when he stepped out of the car. “I’m fine! I’m fine! Just . . . drive carefully!”

“Bye-bye, dear!” And then she was driving away. Finally.

“Well . . . That was awkward . . .” Dipper declared to the empty parking lot. “Gonna just pretend that didn’t happen, I think . . .”

But more weirdness greeted him upon entering the house, for Gruncle Stan was standing with his back to the door and his hips thrust awkwardly forward. Making rhythmic motions to . . . was that Latin music?

“What are you doing, Gruncle Stan?”

The old man startled and spun around. There was a look of horrified guilt on his sweaty red face. “Um . . .” In a blur, he snatched up a CD player—the source of the Latin music—and hurled it through the door to the museum. With a crash, the music stopped.

Dipper said the one reasonable thing he could possibly have said at that time. “Uh . . .”

Stan whipped around and shouted, “Nothing! I wasn’t doing nothing!”

Dipper took a step back. “Y’know what . . . I’m just gonna pretend _this_ didn’t happen _either_ . . .”

“Good! Because nothing did happen! Didn’t . . . Uh, I wasn’t doing—I did . . . I am doing . . . Er . . . Nothing! _Nothing_, _I say_!”

Dipper did the one reasonable thing he could possibly have done at that time. He fled upstairs.

“I CERTAINLY WASN’T DANCING!” Stan bellowed up after him. “IT WAS JUST . . . CARDIO! JAZZERCISE! BUT TO LATIN MUSIC! IT HAS A FASTER BEAT!”

Only when the attic door was shut, locked, bolted and barred behind him did Dipper stop for air. He shuddered. “I feel like I need to scrub my eyes . . . with soap . . . and maybe sandpaper . . .”

Ensconced in a high-backed chair and stroking Waddles pensively, Mabel swiveled around slowly. “Glad to see you’ve finally returned home, Dipping Sauce. We need to discuss something.”

Glancing at his sister, he blinked in surprise. “Where did that chair come from?”

“I asked Soos to bring it in before he left. I selected it for . . . y’know. Mood.”

“Have you been, um, sitting there waiting for me to get back all this time? Just so you could swivel dramatically around at me when I walk in? That’s kinda silly,” he said hopefully. Perhaps Mabel was finally back to her old self—this was exactly the kind of thing the old Mabel would have done.

“Irrelevant,” she declared with a condescending wave of her smiling-skull ring-laden hand. “We’re not here to discuss my sitting habits. We’re here to discuss the utterly lamentable progress of your investigation into the recent string of disappearances.”

Stung, Dipper stammered, “L-lamentable?”

“Indeed. Let me tell you, the Mayor of Sweater Town expects better results from you, Detective Dipping Sauce,” Mabel insisted briskly.

That stymied him entirely. For a moment, he just mouthed incoherently, unsure what to say—unsure if he was genuinely angry about such a judgment or not. Unsure if it actually was a judgment; finally, however, her real meaning clicked. Then he actually smiled. “I take it the Mayor’s been breathing down your neck. Eh, Commissioner Mabel Syrup?”

“I am the Mayor. It’s me. And the Commissioner. It’s me. But yes, I have been breathing down my own neck over this case. I’ve told myself that I want it closed yesterday. Not ‘yesterday’ as in I said it to myself the day before today, but ‘yesterday’ as in I want results _now_.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” Dipper said. “So does the Mayor that is you have any recommendations for the Commissioner that is you?”

“The Mayor that is me thinks it’s time the Commissioner that is me took a personal hand in it,” Mabel stated matter-of-factly. “And I agree. It’s time you went back to working with your old partner.”

“Which is you, too.”

“Yes. It’s me, too. The Case-Closer, Chief Detective Mabel Syrup!”

Playfully, her brother asked, “Is that a promotion or a demotion?”

“More of a multiplication. And don’t crack wise with me, Dipping Sauce, or I’ll have your badge.”

Her brother actually pumped the air. “Alright! Finally! Good to have you back, Mabel! But . . . You do realize that I, um . . . You realize that I’m still going to work with Norman, right? His ability to see and talk to ghosts is really useful. And he’s a cool guy and whatever,” the behatted boy affirmed quickly.

With a sigh, his sister rose and began to pace. “Both the Mayor that is me and the Commissioner that is me question you working with this known conman—”

Dipper began to protest, “Mabel—”

But she cut him off. “—and think he’s holding back your investigation—”

Dipper’s hands actually went to his hips. “_Mabel_—”

“—but we that is me also realize you’re too close to the action to see that for yourself,” she conceded.

“Wait. What?”

“Chief Detective Mabel Syrup is being assigned to this case in the hope that she that is me can make you see reason while she that is me helps you close the case. Simple as that,” his sister explained.

“So . . . You’ll help us?” Dipper asked hopefully.

“I will help _you_. If doing so somehow benefits Skulldugger E. Lefake, I’ll just have to learn to forgive myself for it one day,” Mabel clarified longsufferingly.

Dipper sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about my friend like that. Wish you’d give him a chance. You’d like him a lot—he actually is _really_ cool. And his gift is the real deal. _Rare_ and _special_,” Dipper even added ironically.

With an expansive gesture of fraternal concern, Mabel put an arm round her brother’s shoulder. “He’s fakey, bro-bro. But I don’t blame you for not being able to see that. I forget sometimes how young and impressionable you still are. Certainly I was naïve at your age, too.”

“You’re five minutes older than me,” Dipper retorted shortly. “Five. Fricative. Minutes. And I’m downright jaded and cynical compared to you. Or normal you, at any rate.”

Ignoring him, Mabel concluded, “So I’ll be there to point out what you miss. Both on the case and on the fake. Heh. That was pretty good wordplay, huh?”

“Whatever. Just be nice to him tomorrow. Whenever people are mean to him, I feel like punching somebody.”

That made Mabel stop short. “People are . . . mean to him? Why?”

Her brother shrugged. “Because he’s different. People are just jerks sometimes for no reason. You know that.” Which was added with perhaps a hint of reproach in it.

Mabel said nothing.

“Can you promise you’ll at least be civil to my friend? For me?”

“Blarg . . .” was her response. “This is gonna give the Commissioner that is me an ulcer . . .”

****

For a long moment, fog was the only thing to enter the cozy parlor of the Gleeful residence. Undulating like an octopus, its wisps and tendrils spread outward to wrap around the furniture and reach into the corners. The room was soon shadow and fog.

And then, as Gideon giggled ecstatically to himself, it stepped across the threshold.

**LONELINESS**

It was impossibly tall, yet it somehow fit through the door. It had no face—only a deathly pale featurelessness—yet it seemed to stare directly at Gideon, seemed to be shouting straight into his mind. It reached out a bone thin hand for him.

**TAKE AW**—

Its hand suddenly stopped in midair, as if it had thudded against an invisible wall.

And Gideon crowed with laughter.

It tried to step towards him, but its foot suddenly stopped in midair, too.

**STUCK**

“Bahahaha! What’s the matter, boy? Can’t come any closer? GWAHAHAHA!”

**CAN’T MOVE**

“Oh? Can’t you? Well, I do wonder why that might be . . .” Gideon tauntingly feigned considering the problem. He even placed his chubby chin in his pudgy hand and paced back and forth. “Might could it have something to do with that blood seal I made earlier today on the bottom of the doormat? Oh! Why, yes! It’s probably just that! ZYAHAHAHAHAHA!”

**STUCK**

“That’s right! Hehehe! It traps anything spiritual, you fool! Ghosts or demons or the undead—the only way you’re movin’ from that spot is if I let you! You work for me now! HAHA! HAHAHA!”

**STUCK**

“Well, shoulda known better than to mess with me,” Gideon sneered. “You’re not the first ghost I’ve dealt with, and you’re a dern idjit if you think you’ll be the last.” Then, drawing a knife from inside his suitcoat, he declared keenly, “To business. I figure a standard ‘enslaved in perpetuity’ blood pact should suit our needs—by which I mean ‘my needs’—quite nicely. Of course, we can—meanin’ I can— always add a corollary or two as I need—”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

“You ever want out of there, you’d best learn to shut up and listen. You’re taking orders from me now, boy!”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

Under the sculpted hair and the pudgy flesh, deep within his skull, it was like the shriek of a buzzsaw cutting through metal! Even Gideon’s powerful mind—his mental mettle—was pierced by it! Falling to his knees, he reflexively clamped his hands over his ears. Cried out, “STOP! I COMMAND YOU TO STOP! SH-SHUT UP!”

But it did no good; the shriek was not in his ears.

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

Though whatever it was—ghost or demon or undead—should not have been able to reach it, the front door slammed shut! Gideon looked up in bewilderment then, for it suddenly gaped back open and a piercing white light came rushing out of the maw between posts and lintel! Like cold lightning or like the frenzied energy of starvation!

And, slowly, the light was consuming the doormat—burning it away.

“N-no . . . That’s . . . impossible . . . HOW ARE YOU DOIN’ THAT?! NOTHIN’ SPIRITUAL CAN BREAK A BLOOD SEAL!” Gideon screamed in impotent rage. “STOP IT AT ONCE!”

The edges of the doormat were gone already. In mere seconds, the seal would be broken.

Panic overtook Gideon. He turned and ran as fast as his stubby legs would carry him—ran into the kitchen to hide behind the counter. “Can’t believe it . . . Can’t believe it . . .” he panted. “Shouldn’t even be possible . . . How—”

**LONELINESS**

And then there was silence.

For a brief instant, Gideon gagged on his own fear. And then something in him—his latent pride, perhaps—spat it out. He went deathly calm. “No. This is not how you let it happen, Gideon. Be calm. Think. It’s broken the seal . . . so it must not be _spiritual_ after all . . . And that means . . .”

His eyes fell to the knife in his hand. But that wasn’t nearly big enough. He tossed it aside and, from the knife block, drew the largest blade—the butcher knife. Sharp as a razor.

“Steel yourself, Gideon . . . And then, steel that _thing_, too . . .” With the butcher knife clenched in both hands, he jumped from around the counter. “Hyah!”

But he was alone in the kitchen.

He jumped around the hallway corner. “Hyah!”

But the hall was empty now, too.

“W-wha?”

And that terrifying light . . . gone as well. But the door was shut again.

“W-where you at, boy?!” Gideon shouted roughly. “Come out ‘n’ face me! You got another thing comin’ if you think I’m f-frightened of a piece of—WHERE ARE YOU?!”

There was no answer.

With the knife held tight, Gideon crept forward. Slowly he opened the door and peaked outside. Nothing but fog. Whatever that thing was, it seemed to have vanished . . .

“Unless it’s right behind—”

**LONELINESS **

Gideon jumped through the open door, slashing around wildly as he did, but the blow missed! Then his heel caught on the walk, and he fell backward hard—fell against the sidewalk, the butcher knife clattering away from his grasp!

**TAKE AWAY**

“NO!” Gideon shouted at the thing looming impossibly high over him! Higher than the sky itself! “NO!” Reaching down to seize him with its dealthlike hand! “NONONO!” He scrambled away from it—scrambled to his feet and fled across the garden! “NOOOOOOO!”

**FOREVER**

“NOOOOOOO!”

Gideon only had stubby, little legs, however; in less than five paces, a hand as pale and thin and cold as old bones closed on his shoulder. A slow flash of light engulfed him. Only his scream escaped it.

“NOOOO—”

And then, the light was gone, leaving nothing but fog and silence.

And a terrified neighbor, Miz Atticals, parting her curtains to look outside and see what had caused such a chilling din. The police arrived within minutes.

****

Lying in his bed, warm and secure, Dipper called quietly, “G’night, Mabel.”

“Mmmeah yeah . . . Zzzz . . .” she murmured back.

For his part, Waddles grunted something that was either “Good night” or “Doorbell”.

And Dipper chuckled to himself. Things we’re starting to look up . . . A lot had been learned about what they were up against. His sister was recovering and coming around to his new friend . . . Together, nothing could stop the three of them . . . The Mystery Kids . . . Together, they were going to solve the disappearances and rescue the children and make everything in the world right again . . .

Fix everything . . . Together . . . The Mystery Kids . . .

And maybe now . . . Maybe now he wouldn’t have to try so hard to hold everything together . . . Maybe now this life would be good enough, and he wouldn’t have to give his world to lift everything up or have to change his life to better suit your mood . . . ‘cause you’re so smooth . . .

Right before he dozed off, Dipper wondered, “Where’s that Latin music coming from?”

Then he slipped beneath an ocean under the moon to tango with Wendy. Gave her his heart even though nothing else was real. So he forgot about it in the morning.

****

{Normy dear, it’s time for bed,} Elaine informed her grandson gently.

“Just a sec, Grandma . . .” Norman replied groggily. “Almost done . . .”

With spectral hands on spectral hips, she tried a more coaxing tone. {Normy dear. Bedtime.}

“In a sec . . .”

Detoby sighed into his moustache. {As the moonshiner said: it’s no juice. I’ve been trying to send Bugaboo here up to beddyboo for at least an hour. You might as well call it quits, my Sweetcake; he ain’t budgin’ and we can’t nudge him.}

“I’m almost done . . .” the Meidum monotoned in reply. “Just needa finish Maine . . .”

{It’s after eleven,} Elaine countered sternly. {Maine will still be there in the morning.}

“Promised Dipper I’d finish t’night . . .” her grandson countered stubbornly. “Promised him . . . So I’m gonna finish t’night . . .”

The Jokergeist shrugged at Elaine when she looked to him for support. {Like ‘twas said: no juice.}

“No juice . . .” Norman repeated vaguely.

It was Elaine’s turn to sigh. {No juice . . .} she relented. {You and your father both get this stubbornness from your grandfather. I swear, the man was an absolute jackass sometimes, and so are his offspring . . . Well, have you learned anything while denying yourself of the sleep you need to grow big and strong?}

Norman considered that as the 47th page for disappearances in Maine during a fog loaded. “Learned I should just let him catch me next time—running away from him was a real stupid move . . .” he muttered to himself.

{Hmm?} both his grandmother and the Jokergeist intoned in unison.

“Nothing, no,” the Medium replied more clearly. “Haven’t found any strings of fog-related disappearances since . . . . What was it called? In Connecticut . . . Amity Park, or something.” Stretching, he groaned, “Probably not gonna find anything else in Maine, but . . . gotta be thorough . . .”

{Because you promised Dipper,} Elaine supplied the rest.

“Yep . . .”

With another sigh, she shook her head. But a small smile played on her lips all the same.

The 48th page loaded . . . Nothing . . .

{Think we’re any nearer the bottom of all this?} Detoby asked.

“Maybe. Gonna have to review the notes together first . . . Think about ‘em a little more . . .”

Elaine added flatly, {Sleep on them maybe?}

The 49th page loaded . . . Nothing . . .

“Yeah. Once I finish this last page . . .”

{And then you promise you’ll go to bed?}

Norman nodded absently. “Yes, Grandma . . .”

{I’m holding you to that. A growing boy needs his rest.}

The 50th page loaded . . . Also nothing . . .

{Alright. Time to shut off the computer and go to bed now. Move it, young man,} she ordered her grandson.

{I’d listen to what she tells you, Bugaboo. Besides, you did promise _her_,} Detoby added emphatically—an addition which earned him a nod of approval from Elaine.

Shuffling along, Norman did as instructed. It was late, after all, and he was exhausted. Changing into some pajamas, he then staggered into bed. “G’night . . .” he called out.

Elaine and Detoby both popped their heads through the door (literally) to reply, {Goodnight, Normy dear,} and {Sweet dreams to you, Bugaboo} respectively. Then they popped back out and drifted down to the kitchen to discuss things together.

Before sleep cut short her usual flirtations, Norman murmured, “Real dumb . . . Next time, should just let Dipper catch me . . . Wasn’t thinking at all . . . Wasn’t thinking . . . Wazzzz . . .”


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh no! My back is sooooo _sore_! Won’t you _please_ help me crack it, Dipper? Just be careful, because I’m really . . . _ticklish_ . . .” Hopeful. Not at all subtle.

“Really?” Devious. An evil glint in those milk chocolate eyes.

“Yes! I mean, no. Oh no . . . Stop. Stay away from me with your tickle-crazy hands. I must flee, but I’m so very clumsy and slow, it will surely prove ineffective. I flee you now.”

More than anything, Norman felt embarrassed because he was aware his acting was so terrible. But one can’t argue with results—Dipper chased after Norman and (after Norman made a token effort at escape through the fog) Dipper tackled Norman to the ground. Pinned him and began tickling him.

“Hahahahaha!”

“You like that, huh? You like that?”

“Ye—I mean, no! Hahaha!”

“Well then take that! And this! And some of these!”

How long this perfect moment lasted was impossible to say, but it stopped suddenly.

“W-wait . . .” Dipper panted. “I’m . . .” In his eyes, the realization. He was on top of his friend—straddling his friend’s waist and holding him down. Running his hands over his friend’s body. Laughing. Liking it. “B-but I’m not . . .” A flush. “Someone might see us! There’s already somebody watching us somewhere out there in the fog!” By reflex, a recoil.

Norman grabbed onto his hands. Held him in place over him. Bolder than he had ever dared be. Or more desperate. “D-don’t stop . . .” Norman whispered. Begged. “P-_please_ don’t stop . . .”

“B-but I’m not . . . I can’t be . . .”

“Neither am I.” A lie, but a reassuring one.

“Then . . . What are we—”

“Just r-roughhousing. Right? Just roughhousing. And that’s n-normal for boys. Right?”

“R-right . . . Just roughhousing . . .”

“So we don’t have to stop.”

“No . . . I guess . . . we d-don’t . . . Not if we don’t want to . . .”

“I d-don’t want you to stop.”

“K-kay . . .”

And Dipper leaned back over Norman. Yes. Leaned in close. So close. Yes. Laid a hand on his shoulder. Yes. And chest. Yes. And side and waist and hair and knee and . . .

That was too many hands. Way too many hands.

Norman looked down and gasped. Hands out of the fog! So many hands! Taking hold of him!

“But how—”

{You have to help us. Come with us.}

Whatever had been watching them! Whatever had been taking kids! It was there now! It had come for them! Looming up behind them like an impossibly tall shadow in the fog! How could he have forgotten about it?!

{You have to stop it to stop him. To save yourself. And him, the one that reaches for it. And him, the one you love and that he reaches for. And all of them, that it took.}

“D-Dipper, _run_!”

“What’s the matter, Norm?”

The hands suddenly yanked Norman back—yanked him away from Dipper and dragged him through the fog! “NO! DIPPER! BEHIND YOU!”

“NORMAN!”

“BEHIND YOU! RUN!”

He struggled, but the hands held him fast! No matter how hard he fought, they held onto him and dragged him through the swirling cold! He couldn’t even see Dipper any more—had lost sight of him in the fog—but he knew that thing was still behind him! Going to take him!

“NO! PLEASE! I HAVE TO SAVE HIM!”

Many voices. {You can’t save anyone if you don’t know what and who has come for you.}

“H-huh?”

{We will help you see who and what you’ve seen.}

The hands ceased to pull him, and the fog out of which they had materialized now coalesced into wrath-like shapes. Hands, arms, shoulders, torsos and legs and heads; distinct yet indistinct bodies. Wraith-like children, as if specters made from the fog.

A blond jock. A Latina cheerleader. A semigoth girl. An African-American techie. An average boy.

Sudden knowledge. “I’m in Connecticut.”

{Yes,} the wraith-children of Amity Park replied as one.

“You were taken first. It all s-started here, didn’t it?”

{You will be taken next,} the semigoth girl stated. {You already know this, don’t you?}

“W-what?”

Behind them all, it moved. Norman gasped. It was a shadow he could barely see, but he knew it was there. Waiting for the chance to take him. But what was it?

The African-American techie did not speak, but he texted a message into his phone. Held it up. <And you will not be the last if you do not stop it to stop him.>

Staring into the fog. Staring so hard, it strained his eyes and made his head start to ache.

“But w-what is it? I can’t let it get Dipper! Tell me quickly!”

Coming closer . . . Getting bigger . . . Impossibly tall . . . And yet, still, he could not quite see it . . .

{You know who it is that took us. You know what it is that took us. You’ve already seen him and it,} the average boy said.

“But I haven’t!” Desperate. “I really don’t know! You said you’d help me see what it is!”

{Not what. Who. And what,} the Latina cheerleader asserted.

The blond jock said, {See what you’ve already seen. Know what you’ve already known.}

< help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ > The African-American techie texted.

Was that . . . a gaunt smile, as if ravaged by disease? Barely a face anymore. And a rumpled suit? And behind it . . . a void of black emptiness? A grave? No, but like a grave. Almost like—

More hands out of the fog, seizing him and dragging him away. Dragging him fast and far.

“Wait! I almost saw it!”

{You have to help us. Come with us.} New voices, yet almost the same. Then new wraith-like children, yet almost the same. A gangly, dour girl. A modern Huck Finn. A mess of braids and curly bows. A future craftsman. An adventuress.

A flash of knowledge. A flash of pain in his head.

“I’m in . . . Oregon? That town south of here, right?”

{Yes,} the fog-bound children of Ashland answered in a single voice.

“So . . . What took you?”

A shadow moved behind them. Norman could feel it coming closer, but he tried to stay calm. Tried to ignore the building headache he got when he tried to catch a glance of it.

One of the children—the adventuress—spoke. {I thought it was her again. But it was not.}

“Who is ‘her’?”

{It wasn’t her. I just said that.}

The future craftsman held his own device. He texted for Norman to see. <You already know what it is. Who it is.>

The gangly, dour girl intoned, {It wants you next. He comes for you next.}

It crept closer. It made no sound, but the fog whispered as it passed.

“What is it?!” Frustrated. Frightened. A mounting pressure in his skull. Desperate to find Dipper. “Is it the same thing that took the kids of Amity Park?”

{Yes. The Russian spy. But not a Russian spy. The handler. But not a handler. Almost.}

A throb between the temples—a throb of pure exasperation. “You’re not making sense!”

{You must get a handle on it. It has a handle on him, and he on them. You already know.}

“Oh for the love of—I DON’T KNOW!” Norman shouted. “Why won’t any of you listen to me?!”

< help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ > the future craftsman texted.

And it loomed behind the taken children. Invisible, but almost not. Lean as communism. Imposing as the KGB. Frigid and white as a Russian January. And behind it . . . that void of emptiness . . . The cell of a secret, spy-prison? No, not exactly, but—

{See the thing behind the thing. Know the thing behind the thing.}

As more hands seized onto him, Norman snarked, “Real helpful guys. _Real_ helpful.”

New voices whispering into his aching brain. {You have to help us. Come with us.}

And then he was being dragged backwards yet again—dragged faster than should be possible. He knew he was, though there were no landmarks to judge his velocity through the fog. And before the wraith-hands coalesced into bodies (before they had even ceased to drag him), he knew where he was.

“California now?”

{Yes,} the children of Endsville declared as one. A pudgy nerd. A vacant stare. An intense mullet. A nose with a fixed smile. A blonde fury. A stony pair of eyes.

The ache intensified, squeezing the sarcasm from him. “The Grim Reaper took all of you, right?”

The nose with a fixed smile nodded, {Yes.} But the blonde fury retorted, {He wouldn’t dare.}

“Uh . . .”

A brush against his back like a sucker punch to his brain! Norman started around!

Nothing there—not any more, at least. But he was certain he could make out a moving shadow. Black around a rail-thin body. Perhaps a face as white as bone? A thing that looked like the Grim Reaper, but wasn’t . . .

< help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ > the pudgy nerd texted.

“The thing behind the thing . . . So it wasn’t a . . . What was it? A wendigo, either?”

{No. But he is driven by its hunger,} the intense mullet said. {A greater hunger than a wendigo’s forces him out into our world in search of food. He believes he must feed its hunger. It told him so.}

{Stop it to stop him,} the stony pair of eyes declared.

“Stop . . . a hunger? Is it . . . Is it going to _eat_ _me_?” Horror. Animal horror. Deeper than any fear. “Did it eat you?! Is it . . . Is it going to eat _Dipper_?!”

{It will eat everyone if you do not stop it,} the stony pair of eyes stated. {It ate us. It ate me, though it called me a friend.}

“BUT WHO IS IT?! Why won’t you just TELL ME who it is?!”

{Not who. What. And who.}

More than frustration. Like his brain was going to explode out his ears.

Norman squinted back at the not-Grim-Reaper and not-wendigo. Coming so close now . . . Ready and waiting to cast him into the gaping mouth behind it. Except it wasn’t a mouth. But what—

And, yet again, new hands out of and of the fog. Seizing him and pulling away; whispering to him {You have to help us. Come with us.}

When the dragging stopped, “Michigan,” was all Norman said. It was getting harder to form cogent thoughts. Such an ache between his eyes. Such an ache.

{Yes,} the apparitions of Cityburgh confirmed as one. A foreign ambition. A candy-stained maw. A large head. A twitching game finger. A vengeful passion.

Norman could feel an eyeless stare boring into the back of his head. Feel the malevolence that was focused on him. Almost feel a hand upon his back. But when he turned, there was nothing there. Nothing but the hint of a shadow circling around him. Circling closer.

{It will try to frighten you,} the large head said. {It wants to isolate you and make you feel alone. It will try to get into your head and disorder your thoughts. But he only wants to play with you.}

Norman gulped and tried to remain calm. Tried to mentally rise above the ache deep in his skull. So that’s where it had come from . . .

{But you must THWART its fiendish plaaaannn!} the foreign ambition declared. {You must thwart IT to thwart HIM and SAVE ZIMMMothy! The others are optional.}

“Er . . . Okay . . . Who or what?” Norman demanded.

{Yes,} the cany-stained maw all confirmed.

“But _which_ is it?! A what?! A w-who?! Is it a poltergeist I have to stop, or a demon, or something worse, or what?!”

{Yes. See the thing behind the thing. See what you’ve already seen.}

“GAH!” Another throb, another pounding inside his skull. So infuriating and so terrifying.

And it, or he, or whatever this terror of shadows was, was almost visible. Almost come for him.

“I can’t help you if you don’t help me!”

< help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ > the twitching game finger messaged him.

{It said it would help me,} the vengeful passion lamented. {And then he appeared. He took them to it, like it promised. And then he took me to it, too.}

So tall. So thin. So dark and pale at the same time. So familiar. And behind it, a well of . . . fear? Isolation? Emptiness? More darkness than could ever be filled, but gaping open for him. Gaping like the void of space and time between stars. But it, too, was strangely familiar. Almost like—

{You have to help us. Come with us.}

And again, hands made of fog dragged him away. Dragged him far away.

“Colorado?” Norman surmised with both hands against his head. Pressing back against the pressure.

{Yes,} the lost children of Whispering Rock affirmed. A fro that needed braces. A pair of jug ears. A redheaded tomboy. A turtleneck and goggles. A thumb in a bitter mouth.

“And I suppose . . . Ah! . . . you’re not going to tell me anything useful either?”

{You already know everything. You just need to know it,} the turtleneck and goggles stated.

“I don’t know _anything_. I don’t know what’s c-coming for me. Only that it is coming for me, and also for D-Dipper if I don’t stop it somehow . . . And that it’s p-probably gonna _eat_ us . . .”

The shadow passed behind them. Like a government agent, but not. There, but always hidden. Tall, pale, in black. No expression. No remorse. Grim determination, it seemed, to make them disappear.

The fro that needed braces wrote the message < help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >

“The G-Man. But not a G-Man,” Norman added with some strain.

{Yes.}

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Pushing the fear away. Pushing the headache away.

“A-ah! Need to think . . . Need to f-force it out of my head . . . Okay. All these different things. They’re the same thing, b-but everyone th-thought they were different things, right?”

{Yes. The mind can be tricked that way,} the turtleneck and goggles declared.

{We all saw him when he came for us, but did not see him before. We could not really see him,} the redheaded tomboy explained. {We have different eyes than yours. We only saw him when it wanted us to see him.}

Another deep breath in . . . Another deep breath out . . . That seemed to be working . . . Then it passed outside his range of vision. It was behind him—just stay calm!—but he locked eyes with the wraith-like children.

“You didn’t see the thing behind the thing?”

{We didn’t see him, though he moved among us,} the turtleneck and goggles admitted. {We didn’t see it, either, though it was there in the middle of us. Our eyes cannot see what yours can. What you have. Who you have. You’ve already seen.}

{I saw it,} the thumb in a bitter mouth asserted. {I did what it wanted. I set him loose. So he took them, like I wanted. But it was not my friend, and he took me after he took the others away.}

“You saw it?”

{It wanted to be seen by him,} the redheaded tomboy stated. {And then it wanted us to see him when he came for us. But you see him and it even when it doesn’t want to be seen. You can see that far. So see what you’ve already seen.}

{See what you’ve already seen,} the turtleneck and goggles agreed.

< See what you’ve already seen. tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! > the fro that needed braces texted yet again for Norman to see.

“How do I s-see what I’ve seen?” Norman tried to ask calmly. “Can you tell me? Please?”

{How do you normally see what you’ve seen? You look back where you’ve looked before.}

“L-look back?”

{Really look. He is behind you. He is almost come for you. But you can see him now. Then maybe you will see it,} all the voices said together.

Petrified. Too afraid to turn around.

{You must look back to see what and who you’ve already seen. You must look back to know who and what you’ve already known. You must look back.}

“I . . . I c-can’t . . .”

{Then we are all lost. Us. You. Them. Him. Him.}

“H-him? You m-mean . . .” More than petrified. Not that. Not him. Never. “_Dipper_?”

{Him as well.}

Norman gulped a breath in. Deep breath out. “Alright . . . F-for Dipper . . . I can do this for him.”

He scrunched his eyes shut and turned around.

{You must _look_ back. _Look_ back. _Look_.}

He could feel it in front of him. Right in front of him. Waiting for him to look. Playing with him.

“O-open your eyes . . . Open your f-fecund eyes, you fecund c-coward . . . For _Dipper_ . . . On the count of three, okay? One . . . t-two . . . th-th . . .” Gulp. Deep breath in. Stiffen the back. “THREE!”

“Konichiwa (=^n.n^=).”

Norman started back so hard he conked his head on the bedboard. Needless to say, he awoke with a sore head (besides a headache) and a lot of confusion. “Hiya Kitten?” he murmured. “What in the _fecund_ _fricative_ does Hiya Kitten have to do with anything?”

****

The alarm clock did not sound like a military trumpet, but it might as well have sounded like one for how quickly and resolutely Mabel rose—for how determinedly she began to prepare for the day. Practically marching, she went about her ablutions and donned her goth regalia as if it was a dread and dark armor. She applied her makeup (the pale white and jet black) as if it was a warpaint. Each accessory was placed and positioned as if they were an arsenal of weapons waiting to be drawn. When, finally, Mabel set her top hat upon her head, she was a grim and terrifying vision of a thirteen-year-old girl. Little wonder she had become the Grand Goth of Gravity Falls. “How do I look, Waddles?” she asked.

The pig grunted something that was either “goodnight” or “grand goth”.

“Exquisite,” Mabel declared. “Let’s see fakey stand up to this. Expose him for the fraud he is—make Dipper see everything he’s said is a lie. Every. Thing. Seeing ghosts and . . . n-not seeing ghosts . . .” She stopped. She swallowed hard. She straightened her back. “I’ll make him take back his lying words. Once Dipper sees that . . .”

And, as if on cue, Dipper came back into their room. “You about ready? It’s almost time to—HOLY fletching!” he exclaimed at the sight of her, startling back.

Within her heart, Mabel pumped her fist. Victory. Outside her heart, she spread her arms and asked with feigned demureness, “How do I look? Like a grim and terrifying vision?”

Her brother gulped. “That is . . . exactly how I would describe you.”

“Oh, good!”

“You sure you don’t wanna maybe . . . tone it down a little?” he prompted her anxiously. “Maybe go for a little less grim and terrifying? I mean, today you’re gonna start working with me and—”

“This is good!” she replied brightly as she glided past him. “What’s for breakfast? I’m _starving_! Feel like I haven’t eaten in months!”

“Maybe because you kinda haven’t?” Dipper murmured. But not sulkily. If she was eating and cheery again, he wasn’t going to be unhappy about it.

****

As soon as he finished breakfast, Perry lumbered upstairs to pack for the excursion to Portland. This was not an easy matter, however, and he was hunched over his suitcase, using all his strength and weight to force it shut, when his wife joined him.

Flipping on the news (“—only a 47% chance of killing you, and that you can most likely live with those odds, scientists say. In other news . . .”), Sandra asked, “Why are you taking so many clothes, dear? I thought we’re coming back on Sunday.”

“I’m only taking . . . two sets of clothes . . .” he panted at her.

“Then wh—ah,” she intoned as it dawned on her that her husband’s clothes had a lot of material in them. “Here. You force it shut, and I’ll fasten the clasps.”

Perry practically lay across the suitcase, Sandra flipped the metal clasps, and (miraculously) the piece of luggage remained shut. Rolling off of it, he just lay there and breathed for a moment. She said nothing. She might have said this was why Perry needed to diet, but she did not. Instead, she hummingly began to pack her own suitcase.

Only the newscaster spoke. “—authorities are attempting to interrogate the cat, but the cat’s lawyer insists that it has no comment because ‘it’s a cat, and cats cannot speak, you crazy, crazy people’. Locally, beloved psychic and child-celebrity, Gideon Gleeful (13), was reported missing late last night—the apparent latest and most communally-devastating disappearance in a string of child disappearances. A candlelight vigil has begun outside the Gleeful residence. The preceding (though less beloved, less psychic, and less celebrity) disappearances include—”

With the jab of a button, Perry turned off the TV. For a moment, he just sat in thought. Eventually, he murmured, “So there’s been another one . . . Has, um . . . Has Norman already taken off?”

Sandra bit her lip. “Yeah, he did. Right after breakfast, like usual.”

“_Again_?! When there’s some sicko out there kidnapping children?!” Perry demanded. “What’s he even thinking?! For the love of . . . He’s supposed to be _smart_! Well, I guess I better go find him . . .” And, grumbling, Perry lumbered out of the room. “Doesn’t even make sense . . . Thought he hated school . . . Why’s he always in such a rush to get there early?”

****

It was an odd feeling. Almost imperceptible, and yet Norman was aware of it. As if everything was tilted slightly. Or as if his brain was titled slightly. He shut his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes again, and it was still there. He stood perfectly still and straight, but the feeling of everything tilting slightly lingered.

You’re imagining it. You’ve probably been half-crazy all along, and now your brain is snapping.

“M-maybe . . .” Norman murmured.

At his side, Detoby glanced over. {What’s that?}

“Sorry. Nothing. Just . . . nothing.”

{Um . . . Okay, then.}

Even he thinks you’re weird.

Norman’s eyes flitted to the Jokergeist, and he stared at that bulbous spectral face.

{Er . . . Something bug you, Bugaboo, about my mug-aboo?}

You’ve upset him. You’ve upset one of the only friends you have. Idiot.

Norman looked away. “No. S-sorry.”

{Is something wrong, Norman? You’re acting . . . screwy as a Phillips-head.} And the Jokergeist honked his horn automatically.

You don’t deserve friends. It’s only a matter of time until everyone realizes that.

Stepping forward suddenly, the Medium started walking briskly. “C-c’mon!”

{Bugaboo—}

{Norman-oo! _Norman_-_oo_!} And Grandmother Chiu’s head popped excitedly through the fence, causing Norman to practically jump out of his skin. She laughed merrily at his surprise before saying, {You scared of rittle old me-oo? I understand; I am scary, rike the tiger-oo!}

Acting like a coward. No wonder she’s making fun of you.

“Y-you just _startled_ me, Chiu Hal-muh-nee,” Norman insisted quickly. Defensively. “That’s _all_.”

The old ghost stopped laughing and looked intently at the Medium for a moment. Eventually, she inquired, {You are not werr? You seem . . . how to say? Tight? Rike a string on a music instrument.}

{That’s what I’ve been saying!} Detoby concurred. {Well, not that exactly, but basically that.}

{You . . . scared of fog? Of who takes chirdren? Is okay to be scared-oo!} she insisted. {I’m scared too—for you and for my granddaughter and her friends-oo!}

Detoby interjected proudly, {The Normedium ain’t scared! He and his friend—with the hat—have been trying to figure out the identity of the kidnapper and put a stop to the disappearances.}

Not that you’ve done them any good. You haven’t been able to help any of them. You’re useless.

Grandmother Chiu’s eyes went wide. {True-oo? You worry about chirdren who taken away, yes? You good boy! Brave! Have good heart—I arways say-oo!}

{That he does!}

Listen to them making fun of you. They know you’ve failed. They know you could’ve done more.

His eyes on the ground, Norman flushed with shame. “I’m . . . t-trying . . . R-really, I am . . .”

{Of course you are!} Detoby agreed heartily. {And I am proud of you for that . . . Even if I wish you and Dipper would be more careful about being outside alone. Such as . . . right now, I suppose.}

{Arone? We are with him,} Grandmother Chiu contested.

{Yeah, and a lot of good that would do him if whoever or whatever it is comes at him now.}

He will. Soon.

With a start, Norman looked wildly around.

Both ghosts blinked at him in surprise. The Jokergeist asked, {Is something wrong?}

“N-no!” the Medium insisted too quickly. “Just um . . . f-feeling a little edgy. Didn’t sleep well. Stress from . . . the investigation, and everything.”

{Ah . . . You stress-oo. You have heavy thoughts-oo,} Grandmother Chiu surmised sagaciously. {You should try . . . myeong-sahng—how to say? Crear mind to find peace in your heart-oo.}

{What, like . . . meditation?} Detoby asked.

{Yes yes yes! Meditation-oo! You crear mind, you don’t have heavy thoughts-oo!}

Not that it’ll help. It doesn’t matter how clear a broken mind is.

“I’ll, um . . . I’ll keep that in mind. Ko-mahp-sum-ni-dah,” Norman added perfunctorily.

Grandmother Chiu clapped her hands in delight. {Very good! Very good-oo!}

Your pronunciation is terrible. She only pretends to like it because she has no one else to talk to.

Norman looked away from the delighted Korean ghost. “I sh-should go . . . Don’t want to be late, y’know?” Making another bow, he intoned, “Ahn-yoh-hi-gyes-yo, Chiu Hal-muh-nee . . . And, um . . . sorry my pronunciation is so bad,” he added quickly before scurrying away.

That’s the only reason anyone ever talks to you. They have no one else—no one better.

Somewhat taken aback, both the Jokergeist and the Korean ghost exchanged a worried glance. {Bad? His pronunciation _good_-oo . . . Why say that? Why act so strange-oo?}

{So you noticed it, too? That he’s acting a bit . . . off?} When she nodded, Detoby called out, {Bugaboo! Wait up!} And he soared after him.

You must have made them upset. He’s coming to yell at you. Even if he doesn’t, you deserve it.

{Bugaboo!}

Here it comes. You deserve whatever he says.

Norman kept walking. He might have even walked faster—trying to outrun the reprimand which was coming. Had to be coming, because he had it coming.

{Bugaboo!} Detoby zipped ahead of the Medium and, though it was an utterly futile gesture, threw his arms wide to block the way forward. {Bugaboo, what is _with you_ this morning? What’s wrong? Talk to me, kiddo.}

Eyes locked on the ground, Norman murmured, “N-nothing’s wro—.”

{Don’t give me that. I raked muck for years. You think I don’t recognize it when I see it?}

With a flinch, Norman apologized, “Sorry. Just . . . p-_please_ don’t be angry with me.”

Bewildered, Detoby repeated, {Angry? I’m not angry with you, Bugaboo, I’m just _concerned_ because you’re acting so . . . _different_ than usual. Really down in the dumps. Why? Wasn’t everything copacetic last night?}

He doesn’t care about you. No one does. If he did, he wouldn’t push you like this.

Pressing forward again, the Medium insisted, “It’s nothing! Really!”

{Norman, it’s _me_ you’re talking to. Me. _Detoby_. You’re _friend_.}

“Stop yelling at me!”

{_Yelling_?} Detoby repeated, more and more bewildered. {I’m _not_ yelling.} He zipped ahead yet again—floating backwards just ahead of Norman—to point at his face. {Look at my face. Hard, I know, but look at it. Do I look angry? Listen to my voice. Is it raised? Is it inflected with invective? Well?}

He’s only pretending to be nice because he needs you.

{Look at me, Norman. Listen to me. I’m worried about you. I care about you. Please talk to me.}

The Meidum glanced up. And then, some instinct in him actually made him look up—look intently at the Jokergeist. Aloud, he realized, “You . . . _don’t_ look angry. And you _wouldn’t_ yell at me, would you? Not ever.”

{_Never_. I’m your friend. Now do you maybe want to tell me why you’re acting so strange?}

That’s a lie. He’s a liar. And so are you.

Norman took a deep breath. “I . . . don’t know, exactly . . . I didn’t sleep well again, so I’m not feeling really great today, y’know? Got this nagging headache, and it’s like I can’t think straight. Like . . . literally can’t think straight. Everything feels all . . . I dunno. Diagonal? Does that make sense?”

{Er . . .}

Even the ghost in knickerbockers with the rubber chicken thinks you’re weird. Good job. Great.

“S-sorry. Guess I’m just in a pessimistic mood today,” Norman muttered apologetically. Meekly. “I’ll t-try not to be, though. Sorry.”

{You don’t have to say you’re sorry,} Detoby affirmed gently. {It’s okay. Everyone has bad days. So, er . . . Is there anything you want to talk about? I mean, I’m no great shakes at talking about all that head stuff or anything, but sometimes that helps, I guess?}

“Heh. Naw, it’s okay,” the Medium chuckled half-heartedly, moving forward again. “Let’s j-just get to school.”

He’ll probably leave as soon as he—

“Ignore it,” Norman murmured to himself.

You’ll be alone again once he—

“No. Don’t think that.”

Once he’s got what he needs from you—

“Just tune it out.”

And so it continued (Norman trying to ignore the negative thoughts, and Detoby floating along beside him in worried and contemplative silence) until they were passing the Sweet Tooth.

{Mister Babcock,} Bertram Pincus nearly-exclaimed in nearly-delight.

Detoby brightened at once. {Bertie-boy! Long time no tease!}

{Indeed. Earthly pleasure, it seems, truly lasts for but a season,} the Deceased Dentist’s Spirit replied scathingly. Turning to the Medium, he asked, {How are you today, Mister Babcock?}

“I’m . . . I’m okay.”

He just misses practicing dentistry. You’re the only person who—

“I’m okay,” Norman repeated more forcefully.

{Merely okay? If you don’t mind my saying, Mister Babcock, you seem a little—}

{Down in the mouth?} Detoby inserted quickly, and with a honk of his horn.

Both Bertram Pincus and Norman sighed. The former asked longsufferingly, {And just how long have you been waiting to use that one?}

{Oh, years. But I’m nothing if not . . . Determined!} the Jokergeist quipped.

The DDS turned away from his compatriot in death with yet another sigh, turned to the living and said, {His _immoral_ pun aside, Mister Determined is not incorrect. Forgive my saying so, but you lack the brightness you’ve had of late. Remember that you must let your light so shine.}

He just misses preaching. He wouldn’t talk to you if there were others—

“I’m . . . I’m trying. Really.”

{Really hard, even,} Detoby added proudly.

Bertram Pincus nodded sadly. {It must be particularly difficult of late, what with your classmates’ disappearances . . . Difficult and frightening, yes?}

Especially since you’ll be—

“_Yeah_. But I’m trying not to be pessimistic. Not to . . . think negative thoughts, y’know?”

{Remember that only light can banish darkness,} the DDS intoned solemnly.

“Huh?”

{Just as it is only love which can banish hate, it is only optimism which can banish pessimism,} he elaborated. {Do not seek only to block out the bad. Leave it no room. Fill your mind with good thoughts, so that the bad ones have no place to take root.}

Detoby stroked his spectral chin. {Sounds like what Chiu-Thirty-Times-Before Swallowing said. Meditation and clearing the mind of heavy thoughts. Of course, I bet you’d recommend we just pray.}

{You think meditation is not integral to prayer?} the DDS countered. {I have always said that it is. The mind must be made full of peace and positivity if it is to have a chance of hearing the Holy Spirit. This is how one makes every thought a prayer—a psalm of joy and light and goodness to the source of all joy and light and goodness. So yes; meditate. Meditate often.}

Detoby blinked in surprise. {I . . . would have thought you’d think meditation a . . . Well, a heathen practice.}

{This might surprise you to learn, Mister Determined, but you do not know me _or_ my beliefs. There are more things in my mind and heart, Horatio, than are dreamt in your idea of my.}

{That’s . . . Shakespeare,} Detoby realized with some surprise. {Or almost. Paraphrase of Hamlet. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosophy”.}

{Indeed. As I said, you do not really know me,} Bertram Pincus affirmed. {Only a small portion. Do not judge me based on that, and I will endeavor not to judge you based solely on what I have seen.}

{Fair enough, I suppose . . .}

They’ve already forgotten you’re here. But why would they remember something as unimport—

“No. Don’t think that,” Norman admonished himself quietly.

{But, on the subject of prayer . . .} The chubby, spectral man turned back to the boy Medium. {Please know that I do pray for your safety, Mister Babcock. And your overall oral health,} he added.

Not sure what else to say, Norman replied, “Er, thanks.”

{All the same . . . please do be cautious. _Please_,} the DDS repeated emphatically. {My prayers cannot help you much if you seek out danger.}

“Uh . . . Y-yeah. I’ll try . . .”

They all stood or floated there for an uncomfortable moment. If one listened closely, they might have heard the whisper of the wind, “awwwwww . . . kwaaaaaaard . . .”

Detoby cleared his voice. {So . . . um . . .}

A car horn honked, and then Perry’s car materialized out of the fog. “Norman! There you are!”

He’s angry with you. He’s probably finally going to disown you, like you deserve. Freak.

Gulp. “D-Dad?”

“What are you doing walking around alone like this!?” Perry demanded through the window. “Don’t you know there’s some sicko out there snatching kids? Honestly, Son, you’re smarter than this.”

But you’re not. You’re a stupid disappointment to him. Always have been. Always will be.

Hanging his head, Norman murmured, “S-sorry, Dad. D-didn’t want to be any t-trouble.”

And yet you are. Always are. Always will be. Everyone would be happier if you did not exist.

Perry opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it again. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, yet his son was practically cowering. He cleared his throat. “Well, never mind,” he finally decided, reaching over to open the passenger seat. “Hop in. I’ll drop you off.”

“But . . . It’s only like half-a-mile more,” Norman protested, confused. “I don’t mind—”

His father interrupted, “You forgot your lunch anyway.”

A blink of surprise. “Lunch? I always get school lunch.”

“Well, your mother made you one today. Must’ve forgotten to tell you,” Perry lied quickly.

The Medium wasn’t the only confused party there; the Jokergeist remarked aloud, {I don’t remember the Missus doing that . . .}

Silently, Norman picked up the paper bag on the passenger seat, then climbed in.

Detoby drifted through the back door with a jaunty wave to Bertram Pincus. {Crystal-Gleam toothpaste be with you, Bertie-boy!}

{Blasphemer.}

“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” Perry reminded his son perfunctorily. And then they were off.

Disappointment. Your mother probably made him come give you your lunch. He did not want to.

Norman looked out the window, but he saw his reflection in it. His grip tightened on the brown paper of his apparent lunch, crinkling it.

Perry cleared his throat again uncomfortably. “I, uh, want you to understand that I’m not angry. I just . . . I just want you to be careful, alright? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Because he would be blamed. He wants to avoid trouble.

“R-right . . .” Norman said indistinctly.

“Another kid disappeared last night. You see?

Another disappearance you couldn’t stop.

“I don’t want the next one to be you.”

But you will be. And you deserve that.

Norman swallowed. “Yeah . . .”

“Good.” They rode the rest of the way in silence (save for the occasional muttering at the suicidal idiocy of the other parents dropping off their kids). Only when his son was getting out did Perry say, “I’ll see you later today, alright? I want you to wait for me to pick you up. Do NOT leave the school until then.”

Norman looked at this father in surprise. “But . . . aren’t you and Mom going out of town?”

Perry blinked. “Oh. Right. Um . . . They cancelled the meeting,” he lied matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So I’m not going anywhere. So I’m going to be here to keep my kids safe.”

“Oh. But what about work? Can you really leave in the middle of the day?”

“They can spare me for a few minutes. _I am coming_ _to pick you up_,” Perry asserted emphatically. “Don’t leave until I get here. Understand?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good. Um. L—er . . . Lllllll . . . Um . . .” Perry glanced away. His heavy jaw worked for a moment.

“D-Dad?” Norman asked nervously.

{Hold your horses, Bugaboo. Give the man a minute to figure out how to say it. It can be surprisingly difficult.}

“Say what?”

“Luvyason,” Perry said in rush. And then he pulled the passenger door shut. “Havagudaybye.” And then he was driving away, as though fleeing the scene of some crime.

Norman stood there in disbelief for a moment. “Huh?”

{He just said that he loves you.}

“But . . . why?”

{Because he does. He’s your father, after all.}

“But . . . What?”

{You’ll understand one day. When you have a son of your own,} Detoby declared knowingly. {Anyway, look sharp! Your friend is on his way over here, and his sister is sweeping along with him like a little cloud of doom and gloom. You absolutely sure she’s not some sort of Visigoth? She looks ready for war, and bunches of people keep bowing to her . . .}

Norman turned, and there was Dipper coming towards him. Smiling and waving to Norman. Despite Norman’s confusion with his father, despite the nagging headache and the bizarre negativity assaulting his brain, and despite the general bleakness of the world and everything in it, he couldn’t help but smile.

He only—

“Hey, Dipper!”

If it weren’t for your—

“Hey, man!”

It’s just your powers—

“You, uh, remember my sister, right?” Dipper asked with a nervous gesture to Mabel.

“Y-yeah. Hey, Mabel.”

Mabel glared at him. “Phony.”

She knows you don’t deserve friends. She’s the only one who sees—

Dipper interjected quickly, “She’s decided to help us investigate! Isn’t that great?”

Norman turned and looked at the behatted boy. And, like magic, that was all it took to make everything in the world right. “Really? Y-yeah! That’s great! Th-thanks, Mabel!”

In dread and goth majesty, she crossed her arms and scowled at the Medium. “Fake.”

“Tell me about it!” her brother agreed. “Now, with all three Mystery Kids working together, we’ll crack this case wide open! Wouldn’t surprise me if we figure it out today!”

“You think so?”

“Oh, we’ll figure it out, alright . . .” Mabel declared ominously, her eyes narrowed and boring through the Medium’s skull. “Figure all of it out for good . . . Fakey . . .”

Dipper shuffled awkwardly. “Mabel, you promised.”

“I said ‘Blarg’. That’s hardly an answer in the affirmative,” she countered.

“It means yes in . . . Icelandic,” her brother riposted. “So, actually, it does.”

“Fine. When we’re in Iceland, I’ll be nice to Fakey.”

“Well, Vikings discovered America before Columbus. So, technically, we _are_ in Iceland.”

“No, we’re not. We had a revolutionary war just so we didn’t have to be bound by Viking honor to do something every time someone said ‘Blarg’. It’s even in the real Declaration of Independence—the Declaration of Blarg-pendence—that the Shadow President has hanging in the Triangle Office deep beneath Washington.”

{These guys really are twins, aren’t they?}

Norman laughed. “Ha! Yeah.”

Both twins turned to Norman and asked, “What?”

“J-just . . . I was agreeing with Detoby—said you guys are really alike.”

“What? No, we’re not! We’re nothing alike!” both twins countered in unison.

And Norman laughed again.

****

“. . . Yes, thank you. I’ll be picking it up later this afternoon. What’s that? Oh . . . Yeah. Gracias to you, too.” And Stan hung up the phone.

He took several deep breaths. Then he took several more deep breaths.

“Just breathe, Stan . . . Just breathe . . .” he told himself. “Everything will go fine tonight . . .”

Drifting nervously from room to room, the old con man eventually wound up in the bathroom. His reflection blinked back at him, and then scowled morosely back at him.

“Guess there’s not much to be done about this . . .” Stan murmured as he touched at his face. “Maybe a shave?”

The razor did its work, leaving the old man clean-shaven (though the five o’clock shadow would creep back onto his face within the hour). Next, his attention was drawn to his yellowing dentures; deciding he didn’t need to use them for a while, however, they were put into a glass of water with a not insignificant amount of bathroom bleach (a practice which would have made Bertram Pincus, DDS, spin in his modestly apportioned final resting place—him and Billy Mays, since Oxiclean would get those tough stains out better while still being just as toxic).

At that point, Stan went to dress himself, and his eyes were drawn to his wardrobe. This, too, earned a scowl. “Sshould prob’ly take one ov theshe shomewhere to be drycleaned . . . But the plashe doeshn’t open until nine . . . Besht cushtomer shervishe in Oregon, my left butt csheek!”

The best suit was set aside for later, and then the old con man dressed himself in another. Restlessly, he ascended the stairs to drift around the main floor of the Mystery Shack.

Everything was polished and straightened—the place looked better than it had in years.

A woman’s touch . . . One that might vanish as quickly as it had—

Stan took several deep breaths. Then he took several more deep breaths.

“Jushte breathe . . . Ebrything will go jusht vine tonight . . . Jushte keep your mind ovv ov all the thingsh that can go horribly wrong . . . Like—NO! DANSHE! Prachtishe your tango! Quick! Bevore the thought ov all the thingsh that can go horribly wrong drivesh you to madnessh! DANSHE, SHTAN!”

The passionate sounds of Senor Suave y los Tangos Mangos gave him the beat he needed to run (rhythmically) from his fears for a while.

****

At first, it had seemed too good to be true. Maybe that should have been the giveaway—whenever anything seems too good to be true, it usually is too good to be true. Still, the proprietor of the Hotel Lodge had seen no harm (and quite a lot of profit to be made) in accepting the frantic guest’s offer to scrub the rooms of his establishment clean.

And then the other guests had complained about the madwoman who came bursting through their doors, dressed in hazmat gear, and covering everything in sanitizing suds. Even them. Granted, everyone agreed that they had never smelled cleaner (nor had their skin ever been so sparkly)—and most of them even claimed that their posture and hair were at an all-time straightest—but they hadn’t exactly been expecting to be rousted from their beds at five in the morning.

“I understand your concerns. Really, I do,” the proprietor attempted to placate the other guests. “I’ll go insist that she stop. In the meantime, on me, please help yourself to breakfast at Greasy’s—”

“HERE SHE COMES!”

The door burst open, and Esmerelsa entered. It would be impossible to say if she was like an angel, descended from Heaven’s cleaning supply closet to tidy up the world before the Second Coming, or like a demon from Hell’s cleaning supply closet, come to get an early start on punishing the unclean. But it didn’t really matter; demons are just angels fallen low, and angels are just demons from above. There is no mercy for any who have the misfortune to stand in the way of either.

“M-ma’am, I think you may have gone a little over board—”

Esmerelsa raised her military-industrial complex grade dispenser of sanitation. Its nozzle was like the muzzle of a flamethrower. But it killed germs twice as effectively.

“HIT THE DECK!” 

Esmerelsa pulled the trigger, and everything went foamy . . .

But it had never smelled so clean.

****

No one was home by the time Soos reached the Mystery Shack. He found this a little strange—usually, Stan was somewhere or other nearby, but not today. Stranger still, there was a CD player repeating non-stop Latin music. Music in which the thrice-condemned accordion featured prominently.

“M-Mister Pines?” he called out.

And then there was the sound of gravel outside, a car door slamming, and Stan reappeared. But he didn’t have his dentures in his mouth.

“Mister Pines?”

“Hello, Shoosh.”

“Um . . . Where have you been, Mister Pines, sir?”

“Dry cleanersh,” Stan slurred brusquely. “Dropping off shome clothesh to be drycleaned.”

“And uh . . . Your teeth?”

“In a whitening sholushion.”

“Oh. Er. Is everything cool, Mister Pines? There was this accordion music playing when I got in, and you’re always saying the accordion is the toolbox or the jukebox of the—”

Stan strode past him, snatched up the CD player, and hurled it out of the room. With a crash, the music stopped. “There. All fikshed. No more accordion mushic. Now, don’t you have work to do?”

“Er, yessir, Mister Pines.” And Soos scurried away (insofar as someone of his size can scurry).

Once his employee was out of the room, Stan recuperated the CD player, adjusted the volume to a much quieter setting, and pressed play. It still worked. Then, sneakily, he descended into the basement and began to gingerly stretch. Once that was finished and he was as limber as septuagenarian muscles will allow, he set up the CD player, took a pose, and waited for the downbeat.

“Okay, Shtan: One, two, three, four and one, two, three, four and Go, two, three, four and . . .”

****

“. . . which is yet _another_ reason John Knowles was a misanthropic and—worse still—talentless hack,” Miz Atticals blithely concluded (though, sadly, no one was listening to this truthful statement). “Really, if it weren’t for the obvious underlying themes of repressed homosexuality—”

{Repressed what now?} Detoby repeated incredulously.

“—this novel would be _completely_ uninteresting in academic circles. As it stands, it is _mostly_ uninteresting,” the teacher quipped, and then laughed at her own little joke like a self-amused clarinet. “However, the school curriculum requires that we read it, so . . . we’ll try to get through this trite tripe as quickly as possible, yes?”

Detoby looked down at the Medium. {The school requires you to read about deviants?} he asked in utter disbelief.

For a reply, Norman could only look away and shrug. He wasn’t exactly sure what a deviant was, but he thought (from context) it might be a homosexual. If that was the case, he definitely did not want to discuss it with someone who said the word “deviant” like Detoby did. It was too similar to the way he said “bolshevik”.

“Who would like to begin?” Miz Atticals asked almost hopefully. “Perhaps we should take turns to read it in paragraphs?”

As others read aloud in unenthusiastic monotones, Norman jotted down the following lines: “Forgot to mention there were no disappearances after <strike>Conet</strike> <strike>Conect</strike> Connectacut (? IDK). Also another kid disappeared last night. Don’t know who.” Then, at an opportune moment, he passed the note back to Dipper.

The only reason he’d take a note from you—

Norman looked over his shoulder at Dipper, who was reading the lines carefully. Reading what Norman had written to him. Paying very close attention to it. Rapt attention. Which was, in a way, like paying rapt attention to Norman himself. It was hard not to smile at such a thought . . .

Meanwhile, Detoby was reading ahead . {The teacher was going on about homosexuals, but . . . Where? I don’t spy any. This is just a regular all-boys school; nothing homosexual about that . . .}

Norman snorted ever so slightly.

{Could you please turn the page?}

Norman obliged.

A moment later, Dipper passed back the same note. He had added, in his mostly neat print: “We’ll find out who it was later. But we now have a good idea of where all the linked disappearances happened. And when. Amity Park, Connecticut (June 2009). Ashland, Oregon (December 2009). Endsville, California (October 2010). Cityburgh, Michigan (February 2011). Whispering Rock, Colorado (August 2012). And here, Gravity Falls (September 2013)(obviously). Do you see a connection?”

Norman wrote back: “<strike>No</strike> Maybe. Gravity Falls, Whispering Rock, Cityburgh, and Amity Park are all paranormal hotspots. Aren’t they? Do you know anything about Endsville and Ashland?”

Dipper’s eventual response was: “I don’t know. Need to research it.”

And then Mabel sent a note to both of them. The one to her brother bounced off his ear, while the one to Norman arced neatly into his hair; had they been playing everyone’s favorite sport (impaleball), she would have scored three points. Both notes read the same thing: “Hey, doofus, whenever you’re done passing love notes to your boyfriend, I would like in on the conversation.” There was just one difference between the two notes; Norman’s had the words “fake” and “liarbutt” and “sham” and “I can see through your obvious shenanigans” interspersed over it.

{I have never seen the word ‘shenanigans’ used so many times on the same piece of paper,} Detoby commented, moderately impressed.

The boy Medium fought back a blush, and then meekly passed the original note over to Mabel. Before too long, it made its way back to him via Dipper.

She had added: “Pff. Even I know Ashland has that house that like changes. Bends space and time, or whatever.”

Her brother had added: “Of course! The Pink Palace! That building that’s supposed to be built around a rift in time and space! So Endsville must have something really paranormal, too. That would fit the pattern.”

{A rift in time and space?} Detoby repeated incredulously. {How can you have a rift in time? Lord, the boy might need to see the doctor . . . Is this going to come back to aliens somehow?}

To the note, Norman added, “I guess.” and passed it back to Dipper.

But before the behatted boy could finish his response, Miz Atticals loudly cleared her throat. “Mister Pines, I understand that A Separate Peace is hardly riveting, but would you please refrain from passing notes back and forth in my class?”

Dipper blanched. “I’m just . . . taking notes!” he protested quickly—a factual enough statement.

“Mister Pines, do not doodle on my twelfth-century manuscript and call it an illumination.”

“Huh?”

“Put that note away, or I will make you give a dramatic reading of it to the whole class. You, _and_ Mister Babcock.”

Norman blushed bright red as the entire class turned their gaze to him.

{Dang. She caught you, Bugaboo.}

“That’s right. I saw you passing said note back and forth,” Miz Atticals stated triumphantly. “Just because my birthday happened to be yesterday (not that anyone cared) does not mean I was actually born yesterday. Whatever the topic of your conversation, it can wait until after my class. Now, Jenny, I believe it was your turn.”

Now the whole class knows what a freak you—

Still blushing, Norman glanced back at Dipper, who gave a guilty little grin and a shrug.

And, suddenly, it was totally worth getting caught in class. Not even A Separate Peace could deflate his high spirits.

****

Panting, Stan spun on the balls of his feet and his arms arced outward dramatically for the flash of a second. Then he was sashaying forward again, red and sweaty in the face.

“Push through the pain . . . fourandstep!” he ordered himself in time with the music. “Never give in . . . fourandstep! One chance last chance . . . fourandstep! For happiness . . . twistandspin! Good good good . . . twistandspin!” he congratulated himself, for he was making the spins in time for the downbeat. “With her . . . twistandspAAH!”

Stan’s heel caught on the rug and he lost his balance—pitching sideways onto the floor.

“Gah!” he moaned. “I don’t know which is worse . . . My lumbago or my lambada . . .”

****

The mirror had been scrubbed clean to immaculate perfection. Looking into it now was like looking into a higher definition version of the world, and the proprietor of the Hotel Lodge had to admit that was impressive. And that their pores were clearer than they had ever been—every single one of them was visible (and unblemished) in that immaculate mirror.

But, still . . . the madwoman had (unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally) driven all the other guests from the Hotel Lodge with her hygienic rampage . . .

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Esmerelsa blinked in surprise. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re costing me business. All my other clients left after you finished polishing them.”

“Oh, that? No problema.” And, from her purse, she drew a wad of American currency. It made an appreciable thud on the counter. Wads of currency have a tendency to do that.

The proprietor’s jaw dropped. “Holy moola!”

“That eshould cover your espenses, I think. Also my continued reservation. Now, cleaning your establishment relaxed me for a time, but I am once again feeling the estress.”

Fixated on the cash wad on the counter, the proprietor stammered, “Er . . . I find yoga helps money to . . . um . . . relax somedimes . . .”

“Yoga. Si. This is a good idea. But at this hour?”

“There’s a place that . . . uh . . . does an early afternoon cashdown the street . . . Is all this money really for me?”

“Si. I will go try this yoga now. Gracias.”

The proprietor no doubt meant to say “De nada”, but what came out was “Dinero”.

****

“. . . which, in summation, is where our investigation has led us to this point,” Dipper concluded, laying the last of his notes out before his sister on the lunchroom table. “Any questions?”

Mabel looked slightly dazed. Norman looked slightly dazed. Detoby (though only Norman could see him) also looked slightly dazed.

“Actually, I’m kinda relieved you don’t,” Dipper declared, standing up. “Because I need to go be a little more relieved, if y’know what I mean.”

Mabel made a face and said, “Ew.” Norman made a face and said, “Ew.” Detoby (though only Norman could see him) may have made of face, but it was hard to tell given how his face usually looked. Either way, though, Detoby did also say, {Ew.}

“What? I’m just going to the bathroom,” Dipper protested. “Grow up, already. Anyway, if you do have any questions,” he continued, looking at his sister, “_this guy_ can probably field all of them,” and he clicked his fingers to point confidently at his friend. “Be back in a bit!”

Once the behatted boy had disappeared into the crowd, Norman cleared his throat nervously. “S-so, uh . . . D-_do_ you have any questions?”

Mabel made no answer. Instead, glowering at him, she pointed at her eyes, then straight at him. The meaning of the gesture was clear: I’m watching you, Fakes McNotfoolingme

She knows you’re a fraud. And once she convinces Dipper, you’ll never see h—

“Er . . . S-so no questions, then?”

Mabel made the gesture again.

{Looks like she has zippo inquiries for you, Bugaboo.}

And zippo respect. Because that is exactly how much you deserve.

“Um . . .”

Mabel made the gesture yet again.

Running a hand through his skyward hair, Norman tried a different tact. “L-look . . . um, I think we got off on wrong f-foot. You see—”

Mabel continued to glower and continued to make the gesture.

{You can try for hours, but I think she has no intent to give you the time of day,} Detoby observed with a shack of his head and a honk of his spectral horn.

Norman sighed. “You don’t, do you? Intend to s-say anything to me, I m-mean?” he added.

Mabel made the gesture yet again.

With yet another sigh, Norman relented. “Okay. Let’s just wait until D-Dipper gets back.”

Mabel made the gesture again. And again. And again. In fact, she did it nonstop until her brother reappeared through the lunchroom crowd; only then did she stop. “Phew! Glad you came back when you did,” she said, shaking some life back into her arm. “These sleeves are actually really, _really_ heavy. My arm was getting super tired.”

Dipper blinked. “Uh . . . What?”

“Nothing. Never mind,” Norman insisted quickly. “I was just s-saying that a lot’s gone on since Monday.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dipper agreed solemnly. “This weird fog comes blowing in. Four disappearances—”

“F-_five_, actually,” Norman corrected him diffidently.

Five people you failed to save. Five people who are gone forever because of you.

Mabel gasped. “For real?”

His expression tight, Dipper looked away. “Oh, right. There was a fifth, like we feared there would be. Who was it?”

Shaking his head, Norman answered, “I don’t know. S-sorry. My dad just said that there was another one late last night when he was dropping me off. He’s, uh . . . gonna pick me up from school also, by the way. We m-might need to go to my house after school.”

Dipper nodded absently. “Yeah. Sure thing . . . We need to find out who victim number five was. See if there’s a clearer connection between all the victims . . .”

“Have you found one yet?” Mabel asked.

With a shrug, Dipper replied. “Not really. They were all _sorta_ popular, but—”

“What do you mean ‘_sorta_ popular’?”

“Well, there was Pacifica. She was definitely popular,” he declared without hesitation. “As for the others . . . Pacifica’s friends weren’t really all that popular—it was just sorta by association. And the Grand Goth (or former Grand Goth, begging Your Dark Grace’s pardon—”

“Stop that,” Mabel ordered flatly.

“What? Your Dark Grace is the one wearing the top hat with the crown of dead roses,” her brother pointed out teasingly. “Anyway, the Grand Goth was really only popular among the _goths_. Was,” he added emphatically. “Because he/she was kidnapped after they banished or whatever him/her. Just like Pacifica’s minions were kidnapped after their source of popularity was itself kidnapped. So the popular connection? Kinda tenuous. We were thinking it was maybe a connection to Pacifica herself, but we can’t see how the Grand Goth fits into that; they weren’t even in the same social shapes, let alone the same social circle.”

{Hey! That was a good one!} Detoby exclaimed excitedly.

Norman could only roll his eyes.

Mabel, for her part, charitably tried to ignore it. “And this is all since Mon—”

“You see what I did there?” Dipper interjected.

Norman snorted. “Yes, we saw. And we’re trying to look away.”

Mabel glared at him. “Only I get to make fun of my brother’s terrible jokes.”

{It wasn’t _that_ terrible!} Detoby defended the behatted boy, who said almost immediately after, “It wasn’t that terrible!”

Norman snorted again.

Mabel narrowed her black-lined eyes. “You think I’m _kidding_? Do you, Fakey?”

“But I wasn’t—”

Dipper interrupted with a sigh, “Mabel, knock it off.”

She rounded on her brother, “You’re going to let him just—”

“Yes. Because he’s my friend, and friends get to talk obviously non-malicious trash about great jokes they’re secretly jealous for not saying themselves,” he stated unequivocally.

{Friends do seem to say a lot of unflattering things about each other,} Detoby mused. {Strange, when you think about it. But at least they say it to each other’s ugly dog-faces.}

Norman managed not to snort this time, though Mabel (with a “Hmph!”) still pouted on her side of the table.

“Now,” Dipper continued, all business, “you were asking something? Something about the disappearances, I think?”

“Oh . . .” his sister recalled. “So these five disappearances all began on _Monday_?”

With a nod, Dipper added, “And the weird fog, too.”

Above them, the Jokergeist’s eyes widened in sudden realization. {Wait a minute . . . That’s wrong . . .}

The Medium looked at his ghostly friend curiously. “Hmm?”

“We think those might be connected,” Dipper continued obliviously. “We think—and this is only our current theory, so keep that in mind—”

{It wasn’t since _Monday_! Don’t you remember?} Detoby asked excited.

Norman blinked. “Uh . . .”

“—whatever is kidnapping kids causes the fog. Or follows where it goes or whatever,” Dipper allowed. “Some sort of fog-causing demon or a poltergeist that’s bound to the fog or something.”

{You recall, don’t you, Bugaboo?} And Detoby was honking his spectral horn in a fit of epiphany.

Perplexed, Norman asked, “Recall what?” inadvertently cutting off his friend.

{_Sunday_! The fog rolled in on _Sunday_! When you had that _vision_, you see? About the hands? And that Grand Goth?}

“Actually disappeared sometime _Sunday_ night!” Norman realized. He smacked himself in the forehead. “Of course!”

How did you not realize until now? You’re stupid and worthless and—

Dipper turned excitedly to his friend. “What? What is it?”

“_Sunday_!” Norman replied, just as excitedly. “The fog rolled in on _Sunday_! When those hands out of the fog tried to grab me! And the first disappearance happened _Sunday_ night!”

Now it was Dipper’s turn to smack his forehead. “Of course! Norm, you’re absolutely right!”

“D-Detoby’s right,” the Medium deferred modestly. “That was all him.”

Dipper stuck his hand up into the air. “High five, Detoby!”

The Jokergeist blinked at the upstretched hand. {Yes, I suppose it is a ‘high five’ . . .}

“Uh . . .” Reacting quickly, Norman high-fived Dipper’s hand. After all, it would have been wrong to leave somebody hanging. And it gave him an excuse to touch Dipper’s hand. “On his b-behalf,” he added with the hint of a blush.

Spreading her arms wide, Mabel asked, “So what?”

“So what?” her brother repeated incredulously. “So it started on _Sunday_!”

“And so what?” Mabel persisted. “Why’s that so important? I don’t get it.”

Dipper opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it again.

“You have no idea _why_ that’s important, do you? You have no idea if it even _is_ important,” Mabel surmised.

“W-well, of course it’s important!” her brother floundered. “B-because . . . um . . .”

“We have a b-better idea when all this s-started,” Norman suggested. “And uh . . . that might . . . help us . . .”

{Absaposilutely that might help us!}

Mabel sighed. “Good thing I’m on the case now. Clearly, you two are hopeless and bungling.”

“Hey—”

The bell rang, signaling the end of their lunch period.

“—we’ve compiled _a lot_ of information!” Dipper finished his protest.

“Bro-Bro, you’re getting caught up in _details_ again—some of which might not have any bearing on this case,” Mabel stated, drifting regally (despite the heavy weight of her goth regalia) around the table. “You gotta look at the _big_ _picture_. And that is what Commissioner Mabel Syrup which is me is here to help you see.”

Somewhat miffed, Dipper challenged her, “Oh yeah? So what’s the big picture I’m missing?”

“Not sure yet,” she admitted easily, as if it didn’t matter. “I’ve only really known what the case is for about . . . one lunch period. But I got one question you haven’t even tried to answer yet.”

“What the abductor’s favorite kind of sticker is?” the behatted boy asked dryly.

“No, though that’s a good one to answer. It can tell you a lot about a person p-sychologically,” his sister affirmed seriously. “The question is: _Why_?”

{But we are looking into that!} Detoby insisted indignantly.

“Yeah!” Norman agreed. “W-we’ve been looking into the connection between the kids for days now!”

“No, that question is: Why _them_? I’m asking: Why _at all_? Think about it, Bro-Bro. Now, I’m off to _not_ play soccer in gym class,” Mabel stated.

Dipper and Norman (and Detoby) turned to stare at each other.

“Why at all?” the behatted boy repeated.

“Like . . . w-why is whatever is doing this . . . even doing this?” Norman asked slowly.

“How are we supposed to figure that out if we don’t even know what it is?”

“Y-yeah!”

{Could we switcheroo, Bugaboo?} Detoby suggested. {Figure out _what_ it is through figuring out _why_ it’s doing this?}

“Maybe. I dunno . . .” Norman murmured in frustration.

“Don’t know what?”

“If we can maybe figure out what it is through figuring out why it’s taking kids,” the Medium transmitted. “Detoby’s idea.”

Dipper threw up his hands in exasperation. “But we know even less about its motivation!” With a sigh, he stood up. “We’re gonna be late for our classes. Let’s think about things a while, and then talk in geography. Maybe we’ll have some more epiphanies between now and then.”

“Gotcha.”

“And, uh . . . Don’t let my sister get to you, man,” the behatted boy added apologetically.

“N-no worries!” the Medium said with feigned brightness. “See you in geography!”

And that thought was enough to put some unfeigned brightness into everything he did.

****

“Mister Pines? Are you alright?” Soos inquired carefully.

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just . . . you’re limping and glowering more than usual, Mister Pines.”

Stan limped over to Soos. Limped right up into his face to glower at him. Glowered from less than five inches away. “You got a problem with that?”

“N-no! It just . . . looks painful, is all. I was wondering if I could . . . get you anything?”

“Like what?”

Nervously, Soos suggested, “Painkillers? If you’re in pain, they’ll help kill it.”

“Hmm . . .” Stan tried shifting his weight, and his hip started protesting.

“Killing pain is what painkillers are for,” Soos pointed out.

“Yeah, you mentioned that. Sounds like a real catchy advertisement, too . . . Okay,” Stan finally relented. “Go buy me some painkillers. Can’t afford to be all limpy and gimpy tonight. But generic ones!” he shouted after Soos. “I’m not wasting my money on some quack prescription!”


	16. Chapter 16

It wasn’t long into third period—perhaps fifteen minutes or so—when an announcement was made over the intercom system. Mabel and Norman and everyone out on the soccer field were unable to understand it, but Dipper heard it just fine.

“Attention, students and faculty. This is the Vice Principal. I’m making this announcement on behalf of the Principal who is, um . . . currently indisposed with grief.”

And, in the background buzz of the intercom, Dipper could distinguish the Principal’s wailing. “W-why?! Whhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?! He was so widdle!”

“It seems that another student was abducted sometime last night. Gideon Charles Gleeful, beloved child psychic sensation, town celebrity, and darling of the school.”

Dipper’s class gasped collectively. Even Dipper gasped. Gideon, too? It had even taken _Gideon_?

“What sort of l-_loving_ god would allow this?!” the Principal lamented.

“As before, anyone who believes they might have information relevant to this (or any other, less beloved disappearances) is invited to speak with the deputy currently ready to take statements in the office.”

“There can be _no_ god!”

“The School Psychiatrist will also be available to offer grief counseling to anyone who feels they need it. Once the School Psychiatrist has finished counseling the Principal. And m-_me_!” the Vice Principal added as their composure finally broke and they dissolved into a fit of sobbing. “W-_why_?! WHY?!”

The Principal was heard shouting, “It should have been _me_! Take _me_, god! I’m old and—”

The intercom connection ended, and Dipper’s class erupted in its shock. But Dipper already had his notes before him—was already adding this development to the investigation in a scribble that ran as fast as his thoughts.

The Grand Goth. Pacifica. Minion #1. Minion #2. L’il Gideon. What was the connection?

“Why them?” he murmured to himself. “Or . . . like Mabel said, why at all?”

****

A psychedelic “Namaste” symbol featured prominently in the front window of “You Go Yoga”, making it easily recognizable among all the other shops and stores of downtown (or uptown or midtown depending on which direction one looked) Gravity Falls. Also featured in the window was a host of fliers for various and sundry upcoming events (like a Chinese circus in Portland in a month, a poetry-reading and book-signing by a semi-famous author in Eugene in one week, and some sort of dance extravaganza in Salem that weekend).

Sitting at the front desk was a willowy man in a sleeveless, spandex unitard. He had the smooth, serene unibrow of a man who is so one with the universe that his eyebrows have become one with each other. On his shoulder was the requisite lotus, which any and all reputable yoga instructors will have. It is whispered in some circles that these are not tattoos, but blessings of the Great Oneness which bloom all on their own when a person reaches enlightenment. That is all total nonsense, of course; they are absolutely tattoos. And not all that original, frankly, but even yoga instructors are subject to the desire to appear cool before their peers, like a herd mentality for downward-facing sheep.

When Esmerelsa entered, he joined his hands together and bowed enlightenedly. “Namaste.”

“I’m esorry?”

“Namaste.”

“Who must stay?”

“No, Namaste.”

“Oh. Si. It _is_ a nice day. You are the instructor of yoga here?”

He smiled enlightenedly. “Yes. Are you joining our afternoon session today?”

“Si, if I may. But I have never done yoga before. Will this be a problema?”

“Not at all. We always welcome newcomers. We’ll just make sure to put you somewhere you can watch everyone else and follow along. How does that sound?”

“Acceptable.”

“I see you’re already dressed in breathable, loose fitting clothes. That is good. Ah, and our class begins to arrive. Namaste,” he said to the other participants, bowing enlightenedly.

“I was not planning on leaving,” Esmerelsa told him, somewhat bemusedly.

“No, I mean . . . Never mind.”

As soon as enough of the class had arrived, they moved to a wide, open room with a wood floor and individually-sized mats stacked against the wall, ready to be claimed and unrolled. The yoga instructor selected one and handed it to Esmerelsa.

“Gracias.”

“Certainly. I’m sure Patrick wouldn’t mind letting you use his mat, since he isn’t here today.”

For a long moment, Esmerelsa stared at him. “. . . Qué?”

“That’s the spirit! Why don’t we have you take a spot in the middle of the room?”

Her head turned, as if of its own accord. All throughout the room, people were unrolling their mats, removing their shoes and socks, and stepping purposefully onto the mats to begin stretching.

With their bare feet . . . bare, sweaty, dirty feet . . .

The mat dropped from Esmerelsa’s hands and she began to back away from it. But no matter how far she backed up, she couldn’t escape her own hands. It was like she could feel Patrick’s feet on them. Hot and sweaty and dirty—covered in festering bacteria and germinating fungus!

Why hadn’t she worn gloves?! WHY HADN’T SHE WORN GLOVES?!

“Um . . . Ma’am? Are you alright?”

With a thunk, she backed into the window. Spinning around, her eyes ineluctably found the fingermarks smeared upon it. It was the evidence of the countless vectors who had left their germs upon it! Proliferating and interbreeding and propagating via each person who touched the glass! And they had probably touched the mats, too—practically touched the feet! It was as if the glass was covered in sweaty, dirty feet! Esmerelsa jumped away from the window.

“Ma’am? Is something the matter?”

She spun towards the yoga instructor and shrieked, “HOW CAN ANY OF YOU RELAX IN THIS BOX OF FEET?!”

“Er—”

“Where are your cleaning esupplies? TELL ME NOW!”

“Um . . . Under the front desk.”

In an instant, Esmerelsa was there. But what she found was trifling (a few bottles of bleach and glass cleaner)—nowhere _near_ the arsenal she needed to combat the germs; it would be like trying to invade an entrenched, fortress empire with a squirt gun and a slingshot!

“No . . . Nonononononono!”

“Ma’am? Really, ma’am, what is wrong?”

And then, a flash of elucidation. She _had_ an arsenal! She _did_! Dashing out the door, she paused only long enough to assure those unknowingly held captive by an unseen empire of bacteria, “Volveré! Con armas!”

The yoga instructor turned to the class, somewhat less enlightenedly than before. “Anyone know what the Naraka that was about?”

****

No wonder no one here likes you. You’re completely usele—

“Don’t. Think. That,” Norman murmured to himself.

The fog hung thick and cold on the school grounds, literally like a wet blanket of atmosphere over the soccer field. But the gym teacher didn’t believe in cancelling scheduled school activities which had already been scheduled (right there on the schedule for everyone to see) because of trifles like a 73% loss of visibility (or a 154% increase in student collisions), so soccer was still being played. And it would continue to be played every other gym period until the twenty-sixth of October (when the schedule decreed that the class move indoors for basketball and volleyball).

For this reason, Norman hung back on his team’s defensive side, trying to follow the progress of the game. The keyword here would, of course, be “trying”; he could barely see any movement ahead. Apart from Detoby—always hovering worriedly beside him—he couldn’t make out much of anyone or anything else on the field at all. Occasionally the fog would shift slightly, and he’d spy Mabel off on the sidelines (still glowering at him as she ceaselessly pointed at her eyes, then straight at him), but that was mostly it.

Mostly. Every now and then, he’d think he’d caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of his eye—some other person, watching him, from on the edge of his peripheral vision—but whenever he started around towards it, there would only be a tree or lamppost. No one actually there, living or dead.

“Just being silly. Just imagining things,” Norman murmured to himself.

{Bugaboo?}

You’re not imaging things. He’s there. You just keep missing him. He’s coming for you—

“I’m being jumpy. I’m tired, and I’m bored because I’m not doing anything useful this game.”

You’re slightly more useless to the soccer team than you are to the Mystery Ki—

“Stop. No.”

How long until Dipper realizes that—

“He wouldn’t think that. Focus on the game,” Norman ordered himself quietly.

{Er . . . Not sure there’s much to focus on,} Detoby answered the utterance not addressed to him. {Frankly this ‘soccer’ seems a bit . . . dull. How’s your head, by the by? It starting to ache again?}

“A little,” the Medium conceded.

{Things . . . um . . . going ‘diagonal’ again, too?}

He’s back to making fun of you. How could he not be with a tone like—

Norman shook his head, muttering, “He wouldn’t do that.”

{Come again? Something wrong?}

“Nah, it’s alright,” the Medium said more clearly. “Just trying to not let things get to me.”

With a nod towards the ever-glowering Mabel, the Jokergeist asked, {Like her? You don’t have to pretend she doesn’t rankle you a little—not to me, Bugaboo.}

In spite of himself, Norman grinned ever so slightly. “Maybe.”

{Want to go play hooky somewhere a little more fun? It might help you feel better.}

“Well . . .”

He’s behind you now.

With a jolt, the Medium spun around to see . . . nothing. Just a few other indistinct kids jogging through the fog, the goalposts, and deeper shadows in the fog to show were the woods began.

{Bugaboo? What’s eating you?}

Norman took a deep breath, telling himself, “If I can’t see it, then it can’t see me.”

{Bugaboo, if your intent is to make me worry, then you’ve got at least five different kinds of berries. In baskets and everything.}

“I . . . Wait, what?”

Detoby sighed. {Let’s just ankle on inside, okay?}

Hesitating, the Medium glanced around the field. The coach was out of sight, as were most of the other students. Only Mabel was temporarily visible (and it looked like her arm was about to fall off from endlessly making her “I’m watching you, Fakes McNotfoolingme” gesture), but the fog soon shifted to hide even her.

“Oh . . . alright. Let’s go.”

{Hot dog! Twenty-three skidoo!}

Norman didn’t even need to creep or hurry; the thickness of the fog supplied him with a perfect cover all the way to the edge of the school building. From there, he simply turned and walked in the opposite direction of the gym entrance, following the wall as he did.

{You’re not going inside?} the Jokergeist wondered aloud.

“I’m wearing gym clothes. If I go inside, everyone’s going to know I’m cutting class,” the Medium explained. “Besides, there’s somewhere else I’d rather go . . .”

{Oh? Where’s that?}

“We’ll be there in a minute . . .”

They rounded the corner of the building and continued until they came to the next corner, which they also rounded. And then, a moment later, the bleachers appeared through the haze.

{Here? Really?} the Jokergeist asked disbelievingly.

“Here. Really,” the Medium confirmed in quiet contentment.

Do you really think going here will keep you safe?

The Medium took a deep breath. “Don’t. Think. That,” he ordered himself.

{But it must be freezing right now. We might catch our life of cold!} the Jokergeist protested. And honked.

“We won’t. Besides, I don’t care.”

Stepping under the bleachers, Norman stopped at the first support beam. It had stood between them when Dipper first introduced himself. Like a barrier against awkwardness—an ineffective one, it had turned out, for things had still become more than a little awkward. Norman had been on one side, further in, and Dipper on the other, closer to the door. And yet, they had still sat so close together . . . And they had come to be even closer since then, figuratively speaking.

{I really hope you don’t. Elaine is like to kill me _again_ if I let you take ill,} Detoby said with another honk of his spectral horn.

But Norman wasn’t listening. He was settling himself down beside the support beam—settling on the side closest to the door, where Dipper had first sat. Not that the brick and the concrete were physically any less cold or hard in that one spot; Norman hadn’t expected them to be. He had just wanted to sit where Dipper had. It felt like being with him again.

“This is my favorite spot . . .”

{If you say so . . . It wouldn’t be too unpleasant when the weather’s warmer, mind you . . . Shady, but with a little bit of sun shining through those slats . . . So, uh, would you like to tell me why you keep talking to yourself today?}

Somewhat embarrassed, the boy Medium sighed, “Just . . . trying not to think negative thoughts. That’s all.”

{Ah, I see . . . What’s weighing on your mind?}

He’s coming for you. And then, he’ll come for Dipper.

Norman’s face tightened at that one. “I dunno . . . That I’ve f-failed, and kids have been taken because of m—”

{That is absolutely not true, Bugaboo! You and Dipper have been doing everything you can—everything! Certainly more than anyone would have a right to expect from two teenage boys.}

Too tired to argue, Norman murmured, “If you say so . . . Th-that’s not the worst of them, though; the w-worst . . . the worst is this feeling that me and Dipper are going to be next . . .”

As it should be. As you deserve.

Slowly, Detoby turned to face the boy Medium. After a moment’s consideration, he asked gravely, {And why is that?}

“Just . . . Just a feeling. I dunno. And weird dreams last night.”

{Dreams like a vision, or—}

Norman shrugged. “No. Maybe. I dreamt that the fog formed a bunch of h-hands—”

{Sounds like your vision to me.}

“Well, these hands belonged to the kids who disappeared in the other towns. They’d form—meaning the hands—and then pull me to each city. The kids from each of them, they kept t-telling me that I know who’s taking the kids here. Or what. It was really . . . confusing. And _frustrating_.” Norman drummed his fingers against the cement, shaking his head at the memory.

{Who or what? That’s what they said?}

“And sometimes _both_. But I d-_don’t_ know!” Norman burst out angrily. “I don’t have a fecund clue! I feel like I should, but . . . I just don’t . . .” Sighing, he stated flatly, “And then my dream ended when Hiya Kitten turned out to be behind all the disappearances.”

{Hiya Kitten?} Detoby repeated incredulously.

“Cartoon kitten. Wears a pink bow. I think it’s just a logo for a Japanese toy company,” the boy Medium explained dully. “Anyway, you can see why I don’t think it was a vision, right? But I remember that . . . I f-felt so . . . like I c-couldn’t do anything to stop all this. They kept saying that if I d-didn’t stop it or him or both or fragging _whatever_, me and D-Dipper would be next—and I couldn’t stop it, so . . .” With another sigh, he rubbed his eyes wearily.

{Hmm . . . You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a while, have you, Bugaboo?}

“Hardly ever do. Insomnia sucks.”

{But especially not since you and Dipper started trying to unravel this mystery,} Detoby declared gently. {You want to know what I think (which I do occasionally do, shocking as that might be)? I think you’ve given so much razzle dazzle to this investigation that you’re feeling razzle frazzled. Worn out, burnt out, down and out . . . Lack of sleep will do that to you, Bugaboo. And so will frustration and guilt and trying to take the whole le damned world—pardon my French—on your shoulders. But I want you to listen to me now. With both ears, and what’s in between. First, none of this is your fault; it’s the fault of whoever or whatever monster is snatching the kids.}

But it is. If you’d stopped him sooner, they never would have been taken.

“Tell that to the kid who was taken last night. The kid I didn’t save in time.”

{I will, because you’re still going to save them. Of course, you’ll have to transmit it for me then,} the Jokergeist added for accuracy’s sake, {but I’ll say it to their face. Now, second, nothing—and I mean _nothing_—is going to happen to you or Dipper; I won’t let it. Nothing will lay a finger on either of you while I’m around.}

Because a ghost can give you so much protection.

“Over your live body?” Norman surmised.

{While I don’t appreciate your sarcastic tone, young man, the answer is yes,} Detoby stated matter-of-factly. {So pooh-pooh on you, Bugaboo.}

In spite of himself, Norman snorted. “That . . . means something _entirely_ different nowadays.”

{_Of_ _course_ it does . . . Well, third and final, it’ll be doubly hard to figure out this mystery if those negative thoughts keep occupying your mind. Have you tired what Missus Chiu suggested?}

“About meditation? About clearing away the negative thoughts?” Norman shook his head defeatedly. “It’s not working. I don’t . . . I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but it’s not working. They just keep coming.”

You can’t fix a broken mind. You’re finally snapping.

{And have you tried what Doctor Pincus suggested?}

“Um . . . I d-didn’t really understand what he said . . .”

{Okay, no need to be ashamed; I usually ignore preachers, too. But what he said this time . . . Well, I think it might help. Might actually be useful for once,} Detoby conceded ruefully. {But don’t tell him I said that.}

“What did he say?”

{Uh . . . Something about how only light can banish darkness . . . The tune he hummed had a few bars like that} the Jokergeist paraphrased vaguely.

In spite of himself, Norman snorted. “Heh. Were you actually listening this time, or . . . ?”

{I’m mostly certain it was a metaphor!} Detoby insisted defensively. {A metaphor for thinking _good_ thoughts to not let the _bad_ ones in. I’m pretty sure he even said that _specifically_.}

“Pretty sure?”

{Maybe 86%. Look, the point is, try thinking about happy things.}

It won’t work.

“Do you r-really think that will work?”

{Can’t hurt to try, can it?}

A broken mind like yours—

“What should I think about?” the Medium asked uncertainly.

{Something that makes you happy!} Detoby exclaimed. {So what makes a happy you, Bugaboo?}

This idea is stupid—

“W-well . . .” Norman laid his hand against the cold concrete, meaning to straighten up a little, and then he realized he was probably laying his hand in the same spot that Dipper had. Immediately, unbidden as that first unexpected thought about Dipper—when the behatted boy had seemed to shine in the sunlight, and been the cutest person in the world—a blush bloomed in Norman’s cheeks. He looked away from his ghostly friend, hoping the blush had gone unnoticed. “U-um . . .”

{You could think about your favorite things, maybe} Detoby suggested. {What are a few of your favorite things?}

Norman foundered “Er . . .” even as he thought that it was Dipper, and of course it was Dipper. It could only ever be Dipper: the sight of Dipper’s face, the sound of Dipper’s voice, even the smell of Dipper’s person when he leaned close to whisper something in Norman’s ear or point to something over Norman’s shoulder; the milk-chocolate color of Dipper’s hair and eyes, that pinkish tint to Dipper’s nose; the dorky excitement in Dipper’s tone and the nerdy gleam of eagerness in Dipper’s gaze and the geeky enthusiasm in Dipper’s gestures and gesticulations—all this—whenever they were on to something; and the thought of being with Dipper . . . or even being where Dipper had been . . . of laying a hand where Dipper had laid his hand . . .

{Well, Bugaboo?} Detoby prompted him.

“Uh . . .” Norman couldn’t help but look at his hand, placed exactly where Dipper had placed his. Almost certainly placed exactly where Dipper had placed his. Give or take. Near enough, at any rate. Which meant that . . . nothing was stopping Norman from touching Dipper’s hand—nothing was preventing them from practically holding hands . . . except a little bit of time and maybe space (give or take, though it was near enough). And if that was true for their hands, it meant that their butts . . . Suddenly, that blooming blush in Norman’s cheeks blossomed like a rose throughout his face.

{No need to be embarrassed,} the Jokergeist assured him.

“Th-there’s not?” the boy Medium squeaked.

{Nothing makes it harder to think of something than actually trying to think of that something.}

“Oh . . . Y-yeah . . . That . . .”

{So maybe if I get the ball rolling for you with a few of _my_ favorite things . . .} Detoby continued helpfully. Looking around at the fog and the droplets of condensation on the bleachers, he admitted, {Um . . . I’ve actually always been partial to rain. The way it makes everything shine and glisten. Like silver and diamonds. Have you ever stopped to smell the roses, and just looked at raindrops on them? And snowflakes, too. When they get caught on someone’s face or eyelashes and nose, they sparkle.}

Norman snorted a little at how corny the thought was. But then, he began to think of the beads of water he had already seen glistening on Dipper’s cap—on the bill and the crown, even around that blue pine tree. And then he thought about Dipper in the snow, sparkling with snowflakes . . .

{But as much as I enjoy those silver-white winters, I love watching them melt into spring. When the sun comes out and the world warms up . . . When the girls start putting on those white dresses, eh? With those blue sashes made of silk or satin, eh? Eh? There isn’t a man alive _or_ dead can resist those!} the Jokergeist said with a waggle of his eyebrows, a honk of his horn, and an ineffectual attempt at nudging the Medium in the ribs with his translucent elbow.

“R-right!” Norman agreed perfunctorily. And then, suddenly, he laughed because he couldn’t help imagining Dipper in a white dress with a blue, satin sash. With a blue pine tree across the chest. And a pouty frown on his face, of course, because Dipper would hate being in a dress.

{Told you, Bugaboo! Happy thoughts! And then there’s . . . I don’t know . . . Uh . . . Kittens! With their little paws and their little whispers!}

Norman laughed again: cat whiskers on Dipper! And why not? Norman had already heard him sneeze a few times, and it was like a kitten every time!

{And the way they play with string . . . Oh! Getting packages! That’s one of my favorite things! When the postman arrives with one of those brown paper packages, tied neatly up with white string! Who doesn’t love that? Nobody, that’s who!} Detoby declared.

“Ha! Oh my ga-hahahaha!” Norman burst aloud. If Dipper would be annoyed wearing whiskers (and he would), he would be downright indignant to be wrapped up in paper and tied with string! It was a while before Norman could stop laughing again.

{So . . . Did that help?} Detoby finally asked hopefully.

“Y-you bet it did!” the Medium replied with another chuckle. “Next time the bad thoughts start, I’ve got plenty of h-happy thoughts—heh heh, oh yes!—to drive them out!”

This stupid idea can never—

“Whiskers on . . . k-_kittens_!” Norman said to himself, immediately imagining Dipper with whiskers. “Heh . . . Works like a charm . . .”

{I’m glad to hear that. You were seeming . . . a little less ducky than usual. It had me worried.}

“S-sorry . . . You’re a good friend, Detoby.”

{I try . . . I try . . .}

BRRRIIIIIINNNGGG!

Both the Medium and the Jokergeist startled, as if they had been shocked. The latter even clutched at his spectral chest. The former scrambled to his feet, muttering, “Fricative! I need to hurry and get changed before geography!”

He’s coming for you. He might get you before—

But as Norman jogged back to the lockers, his thoughts were filled with the prospect of spending all of the next period with Dipper . . . and the rest of the day after that. And that was a happier thought than any he’d yet had—happy enough to keep out the negative thoughts for a while to come.

****

“Downward Facing Dog . . . And now, shift to Upward Facing Dog,” the yoga instructor enlightenedly directed the afternoon yoga class. “Good . . . Breathe . . . And now, descend to Low Plank. High Plank. Now, back to Low Plank. High Plank again. Good. Ten more times. Low Plank. High Plank. Low Plank. High Plank—”

And then, the front door was kicked open—interrupting this session of totally-not-push-ups-for-fifteen-dollars-an-hour-but-legit-yoga-exercises.

The yoga instructor’s unibrow rose serenely, followed by his head, and then the perfunctory greeting on his lips. But the serenity of it turned to a shout of fear, “NamaSTAYOURHAND!”

But, like an avatar of Kali the Destroyer on a cleaning binge (and in a hazmat suit), Esmerelsa’s hand could not be stayed. The nozzle of her suds dispenser flashed like a jackal’s fangs as it purified that foot-tainted room of its bacteria and fungus and foul footyness. The yoga instructor and practitioners fell before her like Raktabija and his demonic blood-clones. There was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, but not from Esmerelsa; she practically danced in the throes of her frenzied battle-joy among the downward and upward facing dogs of war.

Later, most of the practitioners would assert that they had never felt so detoxed in their lives; it was like they had been purged of all physical impurities. At the time, however, most fled screaming from You Go Yoga like comfortably-dressed refugees fleeing a battlefield. Only the instructor remained, and he was much less serene than before.

Esmerelsa didn’t care, though; she was in OCD nirvana as she set about scrubbing everything—the one task which could fully distract her from her own nervousness about her date with Stanford later. She hardly seemed to notice the instructor’s occasional exasperated outbursts, such as: “At least do a warrior pose or a tree pose while you’re cleaning the tops of those windows! This _is_ a yoga studio!” or “Triangle! Do a triangle pose for the Great Oneness’s sake! It’ll strengthen your back and stretch your legs while you scrub the corners!” or “Why won’t you just leave me in peace?! I’ve said ‘Namaste’ at least a dozen times already!”

****

Once their desks were pushed together and Norman and Dipper were both leaning over their geography assignment (ostensibly to work on it together, though teenagers never actually do geography schoolwork when paired up—not when there’re more interesting things to talk about, like _anything_ _else_ _in_ _the_ _world_ besides the countries and capitals and topographical features of the world), Dipper whispered dramatically to his friend and the ghost, “I know who the fifth victim is.”

Detoby’s eyes widened in surprise. {Whoa. No flies on this kid; he moves too fast.}

“Who?” Norman whispered back.

With a dramatic slap to the desk, Dipper answered, “L’il Gideon!”

But Norman just stared blankly at his friend. “Is that someone important?”

“You don’t know who L’il Gideon is?!”

“The name sounds f-familiar, I guess?”

“Fake child psychic, but real town celebrity?” Dipper prompted. “I could swear I’ve told you about him already . . .”

Norman shrugged. “Pretend I’m not from around here. Pretend I’m from, say, _Massachusetts_. And, by the way, you’ve told me about _a fricasee lot_ about Gravity Falls. You c-can’t expect to remember everything.”

“Oh, right. Well, Gideon Charles Gleeful (aka: L’il Gideon) is a fake psychic who has successfully bamboozled most of the town with Southern charm, sleight-of-hand, and ill-gotten magical artifacts,” the behatted boy explained quickly. “Y’know how I’ve got that journal? 3? Well, I suspect Gideon has an earlier one—either 1 or 2, but I’m not 100% certain yet.”

{Earlier journals?} Detoby mused aloud. {Might they have some recon on the fog demon?}

Norman transmitted that question to Dipper, whose jaw dropped. “I hadn’t thought of that,” Dipper admitted breathlessly. “Stupid of me—it’s so _obvious_! Those journals might! Gideon might’ve had information about what we’re facing! I wonder . . . I wonder if he could be _responsible_ for it . . .”

The Medium frowned at that. “Why would he be r-responsible for all this?”

“You don’t know him,” Dipper replied darkly. “Gideon’s a bigger shyster than my Gruncle, and definitely doesn’t have a curmudgeonly heart of gold underneath it all (‘cause, y’know, I’m pretty sure Gruncle Stan probably has one of those . . . it’s at least made of pyrite—of fool’s gold). He’s obsessed with stealing the deed to the Mystery Shack. Also with _forcing_ Mabel to be his _girlfriend_,” he included with fierce, fraternal wrath. “And Gideon has tried underhanded, supernatural schemes to get both before. That’s part of why I’m _sure_ he has a journal, too.”

{It’s hard to believe another sprout your age could do all that . . .} Detoby said, unconvinced.

Equally unconvinced, Norman asked the behatted boy, “So he did . . . what, exactly? Summoned the kidnapping demon-fog? But then why’d it take him, too?”

“Not sure. Maybe he lost control of it?”

“And what about the other disappearances? What about Cityburgh and Amity Park and all the rest?” Norman continued.

“Well, his family’s not from around here either.” Dipper shrugged. “Maybe they lived in those other towns, too.”

{That’s a lot of times to move in such a short stretch—and across the country, too.}

“Yeah, Detoby’s right,” Norman agreed. “That’s _way_ too many times to move in such little time. Especially considering most of the moves would be across the country.”

“It happens. Sometimes,” Dipper protested, though with less conviction. “Besides, maybe they didn’t move—maybe they just went on vacation. They do have a big RV.”

Norman shook his head. “The first disappearances were in _2009_. S-so this kid Gideon—”

{Kideon!} Detoby inserted, honking his ghostly horn like he always did.

“—would have had to be . . . nine or, like, ten the first time. S-sorry, Dipper, but I just don’t see someone that young harnessing the forces of evil to kidnap a bunch of teenagers.”

Chiming in (though only the boy Medium could hear him), the Jokergeist stated, {Plus, it strains credulity better than a colander strains Wop-noodles—}

“_Detoby_!”

{What? Oh, right. Sorry,} the Jokergeist added sheepishly. {Force of habit. Anyway, it strains credulity that this Kideon could manage to summon some demon fog nigh on half-a-dozen times before it would overwhelm him and escape his control.}

After the Medium transmitted this, Dipper raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I give; it’s a bad theory . . . for _now_, at least. But we should still investigate his house as soon as school’s out.”

Swallowing nervously, Norman asked, “W-what about my D-Dad? He’s picking my up directly from school. R-remember?”

“We’ll work around that—burn that bridge after we cross it,” Dipper blithely declared.

“W-wish I had your confidence . . .”

“Why don’t you?”

Because you’re a failure.

Norman winced at that thought, but he looked at Dipper to dispel it. “J-just . . . feeling a little—”

{Worn out, burnt out, down and out?} the Jokergeist interjected helpfully.

“Yeah, that. B-burnt out,” the Medium added for Dipper’s benefit. “And t-tired from not sleeping well, because . . . I maybe kinda had a b-bad dream last night.”

“What about?” the behatted boy asked solicitously.

Remembering the beginning part of his dream, Norman hastened to answer, “N-nothing weird! Nothing like that!” And, with the faintest of blushes creeping into his cheeks, he elaborated, “J-just that all the v-victims . . . from the other towns, y’know? That th-they formed out of the fog and . . . uh . . . dragged me to each town. T-told me that, er, I already know what’s going on—_which I fricative d-don’t_! And w-we’d be _next_ if we don’t figure this out soon . . .”

Dipper nodded understandingly. “More of that ‘I know I’m not seeing something’ feeling, right?”

“Y-yeah . . .”

Giving his friend an encouraging shot to the shoulder, Dipper said, “Hey, man, I know what that’s like. Frustrating as all heck. Don’t let it get you down, though; we will solve this. And I’ve got a good feeling about today. We are going to get a major break in the case—I can feel it! We’ll be safe, and we’ll save all those kids (even if ones like Gideon and Pacifica maybe don’t deserve it), and then we will have nachos. It’ll all be good. Just don’t think negative thoughts.”

{Just like me and the other spooky mooks have been telling you!}

Norman chuckled, in spite of himself. “B-been working on that all day, actually . . . Trying to stay p-positive, and all. Not always easy . . . How d-do _you_ do it?”

“_Me_?” Dipper asked, somewhat bashfully. “I dunno . . . I just focus, I guess? And it helps to know I got a good partner covering my back.”

A goofy, contented smile tugged at the Medium’s lips.

“Or maybe I should say ‘_partners_’, since I got you and Mabel _and_ Detoby, right? Right?” the behatted boy corrected himself, finger-gun pointing where he thought the ghost was. “I . . . I am actually pointing at Detoby, aren’t I?”

{D’aww, shucks! I’m just happy to be included!}

“Go up and to the left a little . . . No, my left. There you go. And he’s just happy to be included.”

****

When the fourth period finally ended, the halls were less their usual melee of students and teachers bustling in every direction at once. Even the added frenzy of the weekend—of school ending on a Friday—couldn’t make up for all the kids who had been kept home by their parents, where they would hopefully be safe from abduction. It was a sobering sight for both boys, and for Norman in particular.

You’ve ruined everything for everyone. This is all because you’re such a failu—

“Whiskers,” Norman murmured to himself, glancing sideways at Dipper. “Heh!”

The din of people hurrying home was still loud enough to drown out quiet murmurs, however; the behatted boy didn’t hear a word from his friend. Instead, he raised his own voice, “I’m thinking we should grab our stuff out of our lockers, then reconnoiter at Mabel’s.”

“What?”

“WE SHOULD GET OUR STUFF, THEN RECONNOITER AT MABEL’S LOCKER.”

“Oh. Sure . . . Reconnoiter kinda sounds like a dirty word.”

“What?”

“I SAID RECONNOITER KINDA SOUNDS DIRTY.”

Dipper considered that, then nodded. “Now that you mention it . . .”

A few minutes later, they had passed by both of their lockers and were just reaching Mabel’s. She nodded regally to each of them in turn. “Bro-bro. Fake-fake.”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget Detoby,” he snarked.

“Lie-lie,” she said with a second, deliberate nod to Norman. “So you mentioned we’d need to go to fake-fake’s house?”

“Y-yeah,” Norman replied diffidently. “D-Dad’s coming to pick us up.”

“But after that,” Dipper interjected dramatically, “we’re off to investigate the residence of the fifth disappearance: L’il Gideon.”

For a moment, Mabel was dumb-founded. “You’re . . . serious?”

“To quote Duck-tective: Serious as a heart a-quack,” her brother asserted.

“Wow. I mean, he was a schizoid butt with unbelievable hair, but not even he deserved that,” Mabel intoned. “Think how his . . . his parents must feel,” she said shakily. “We should wait long enough for Gruncle Stan to swing by, so we can tell him where we’re going. Wouldn’t want him to worry.”

“Agreed,” Dipper stated. Then, pointing theatrically, he said, “To the student loading zone!”

Midst the fog and the usual melee of students and teachers and parents in cars, Stan’s deep red El Diablo stood out like Lucifer himself at a PTA road rally. It also seemed to somehow be . . . swaying or reeling with a kind of drunken grace through the traffic. For instance, Stan pulled up with one wheel on the curb, yet somehow made it seem graceful.

{Well, he’s sailing three sheets of _something_ to the wind,} Detoby observed.

“Hey, kith!” he called to the twins.

Sweeping up to the car window (since the bezazzle beads on her goth regalia rendered her outfit too heavy to bounce), Mabel cheered, “Hey, Gruncle Stan! Sweet maneuver!”

Beside her, Dipper began, “Hey, if it’s okay, we were thinking of . . . Where are your teeth?”

“They’re bein’ whi’ened,” the old man answered breezily. “Gonna thparkle-thparkle!”

“Why is there a bottle of painkillers on the passenger seat?” Dipper asked suspiciously.

“Obiouthly, to kill my painth. Muth be workin’, too, cuth I’m feelin’ no painth! Ha ha!”

“And how many did you take?”

“I dunno. Twelf?” Stan answered absently. “My back wath really thore. What’he big deal?”

“Er . . .” With a quick move, Dipper swept the bottle into his backpack. “Just gonna keep these away from you for a while. In the future, I think someone your size is only supposed to take _two_.”

“Oh . . . Whoopth! Ha ha!”

“Should you even be driving?” the behatted boy pressed his great uncle.

Stan considered that with the thoughtfulness of the buzzed. “Well, I fi’ure ‘m ath fine to drife ath I ever am, gifen my age ‘n’ my ca’aracth . . .”

Mabel glanced uneasily at her brother, who had buried his face in his hands. “We should not be enabling this sort of behavior.”

“No, we really should not,” Dipper agreed at once. “Look, Gruncle Stan, I think you should go home very slowly and carefully, and then take a nap. We’re thinking it’d be a good idea for us to hang over at our new friend’s house. You remember Norm, right?”

Stan gazed blearily out the window at Norman, who waved uneasily. “Oh, yeah! Him! Painthbruth! I ‘emember him! Good ki’! But why din’t you tell me thooner?”

“Well, we didn’t know sooner,” Dipper began.

“But we might have told you if we had our own cell phones,” his sister interjected quickly.

“Oh, yes. Good point, Mabel.”

Exasperated, the (presently toothless) old man slurred, “Thith again?”

“I’m just saying, if we had cell phones, we could’ve spared you the trip of coming out here—spared you the time, the gas money, possibly a drunk driving charge . . .” Mabel trailed off.

“And it’d allow us to always stay in touch, in case of an emergency,” Dipper agreed.

“Yep. Yep. Definitely,” his sister concurred.

Unimpressed, Stan grunted, “Uh huh . . . There’th no thell thervith thinth the fog came in. E’en I know tha’.”

In an impressive display of her inherited saleswomanship, Mabel countered, “But there will be soon! In the near future. And we need to be prepared for that future day.”

“Yep. Yep. Definitely,” her brother concurred. “Gotta be prepared for the future.”

“It’s calling. The _future_ is calling,” Mabel resumed with a nod. “Which you’d probably know _if_ you had some sort of portable telephonic device with which to answer its call.”

Dipper leapt back into their push. “Like a phone. A portable phone. A portable, cellular phone. For you. And one for me. And one for her. So we can talk to each other from anywhere.”

Despite whatever over-the-counter-induced loopiness was afflicting him, Stan had decided this sales pitch had reached its end. “You wanna go play at your frien’th? Okay. Bu’ hith parenth needa drop you both off back home.” And then, he began to pull away.

But Dipper and Mabel, caught up in the moment, walked alongside the car—talking directly through the window. Mabel took the next line, insisting, “It’s time to live in the _future_, Gruncle Stan! Meaning the _present_! Which is _today_!”

“Uh huh.”

Grabbing the window frame, Dipper argued, “Because who doesn’t have a cell phone today? Besides us, I mean? Nobody. Literally _everybody_ has a cell phone nowadays!”

“And _needs_ one!” Mabel shouted. “For social networking, and in case of emergencies!”

“Uh huh.” Without looking over, Gruncle Stan began rolling up the window (depriving his great nephew of his hold on the car) as he accelerated away. Behind him, standing in the middle of the student loading zone (with other students and teachers and parents blocked in behind them, and therefore honking their horns irately), the twins shouted their conclusion after him. Dipper, for his part, shouted, “You know we’re right!” And Mabel (a grim vision of gothic wrath) bellowed, “YOU CAN’T LIVE IN THE PAST ANY MORE, OLD MAN! CELL! PHONES! CELL! PHONES! CELL! PHONES!”

After a moment, Dipper turned to his sister. “I think we’re getting through to him.”

“Oh, totally,” she agreed. “We’re definitely wearing him down.”

“GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU PUNK KIDS!” someone barked behind them.

Mabel turned and glowered menacingly. “Punk? PUNK?! I AM A GOTH, YOU PLEBIAN! YOU WANNA START SOMETHNG?! HUH?! COME AT ME! I WILL SHOW YOU TRUE DARKNESS!”

“Er . . . Let’s maybe just get out of traffic now,” Dipper said placatingly as he slipped an arm around her shoulders and led her out of the road. “Glad to see you’ve got your old vigor and vim back, though. Real glad, actually.” And he meant it. Apart from the wardrobe, she was like her old self again.

As the twins returned to where Norman waited somewhat anxiously, the Jokergeist observed, {My wife and son were much the same way—kept insisting everyone in the neighborhood had a candle but us. But I just couldn’t hold a candle to that argument!} And he honked his horn.

“Huh?”

{Candle. Meaning a candlestick.}

“D-didn’t you guys have electric lights by then?” the Medium asked uncertainly.

{No—well, yes—but I mean the candlestick telephones. I didn’t think we needed one, but my wife and son kept trying to wear me down so I’d buy one for the house,} Detoby explained.

“Oh.” Turning back to the living, Norman awkwardly said, “S-so, um, you guys want phones?”

Mabel rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Captain Fake Obvious. No, wait . . . Captain Ob-fake-ious. Heh. That’s your name now. Yes. Go, Mabel.”

Dipper shrugged. “It’d just be useful, y’know? I’d always have something to take pictures with on monster hunts, and that I could use to call in backup . . . It’d have a GPS and downloadable maps . . .”

“Plus—I know it’s a novel idea, but stick with me here, ‘cause some people also use it for this—you could like _talk to your friends_ with one,” Mabel added sardonically. “Y’know, social networking. But I guess the both of you would need to find some friends besides each other before you could do that.”

Trying (and failing) not to pout, her brother asserted, “I have plenty of friends besides Norman.”

With the look of a chessmaster making their final move, she challenged him, “Name _five_.”

“Easy. Wendy . . . Soos . . . uh . . . Thompson—”

“Oh, yeah? What’s his first name?”

“Thompson doesn’t have a first name. He’s just ‘Thompson’, because that’s all he needs to be. He’s like Cher or Madonna or Maroon 5,” Dipper said with a dismissive wave. “And then Nate and Lee. Boom. Five friends. For Dipper.”

A slow smile of victory spread across Mabel’s face. “Which one is Nate and which one is Lee?”

The behatted boy froze, suddenly stymied.

“You don’t actually know which one is Nate and which one is Lee, do you?”

Norman had fought hard to repress a laugh throughout the twins’ exchange, but one escaped him at that point. It earned him a glare from Mabel (because how dare he laugh at her dorky brother—only she was allowed to laugh at him) and another one from Dipper (because how dare he treacherously laugh when his sister scored against him—Norman was supposed to be on _his_ side).

“Of . . . course I do,” the behatted boy lied hastily (though, in truth, he had never been completely clear on that). “Nate is the one . . . who isn’t Lee. See? Told you. Besides, it’s a moot point anyway, since Nate and Lee are pretty much inseparable.” Then, changing the subject as swiftly as possible, he asked his friend, “When’d you say your dad’s getting here?”

Unconsciously running a hand through his hair, Norman stammered, “H-he said he’d c-come after school. But, y’know, he . . . he m-may have forgotten.”

He wishes he could forget an embarrassment like you. That’s why—

“Snowflakes. Raindrops.”

“What?” the Twins asked as one.

“I said, ‘B-because he can be really busy’,” Norman added apologetically. “If he, um, d-doesn’t get here in like t-ten minutes, we can p-probably just walk to my place.”

He won’t even come. He doesn’t want to. No one would—

With forced cheeriness, Norman continued, “In fact, uh, we might as well st-start walking now. I’d be r-real surprised if he showed up at all—real s-surprised if he d-didn’t get too busy. So—”

Dipper pointed through the fog towards the school entrance. “Isn’t that him right there?”

Norman startled around in surprise. He seemed genuinely baffled by the sight of the hatchback; he could only say, “Y-yeah. That’s _actually_ him.”

{What did you expect—that your father would actually forget about you, Bugaboo?}

“. . . Maybe,” Norman murmured. In a louder voice for his invisible friend, visible friend, and hopefully soon-to-be other visible friend (or at least soon-to-be visible frienemy—or at least soon-to-be visible not-overt-enemy) to hear, he said, “L-let’s go, guys!”

As his son opened the front seat, Perry absently greeted him. “Hey, Norm. Let’s get a move on so I can get back to work ASAP; I’m already in hot enough water as is for not going to that meeting.”

“I . . . th-thought that was cancelled,” Norman said doubtfully.

“Er . . .” Perry glanced from side to side. And then, he went with the age-old tactic of changing the subject. “Hey there, Gipper. How’re you—OH MY GOTH!” he exclaimed as Mabel slid into the car.

Flushing in mortification, Norman made an introductory gesture. “Uh, y-yeah . . . D-Dad, this is _Dipper_’s twin sister, M-Mabel. She’s a g-goth.”

“No kidding,” Perry murmured, slipping back into traffic.

“I am the Duchess of Darkness,” Mabel declared in a queenly tone. “You may refer to me as ‘Your Dark Grace’. Or as ‘Mabel’. That’d work, too.”

“We were, uh, thinking of h-hanging out together today? If th-that’s alright?”

“So long as you all stay around the house and don’t, like, draw pentagrams on the walls (or whatever it is goths do), it’s fine,” Perry assented absently.

From the backseat, Dipper spoke up, “Actually, we were maybe considering continuing our investigation into our, uh, homework assignment. Which might mean going into town later.”

“No,” Perry said simply.

“But our assignment—”

“It can wait until _tomorrow_, when an adult is present to keep you kids safe.”

{I just want to note for the record that I am an adult,} Detoby said from between the twins. {If age is the determining factor, I am possibly the most adult person in a fifty mile radius.}

Clearing his throat nervously, Norman offered, “T-tomorrow might be too late.”

Perry shook his head with finality. “Then that’s too bad. You’ll have to do another assignment.”

“But, Dad—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts about it,” Perry shot back impatiently. “I don’t think you kids understand that there’s some sorta depraved monster going around kidnapping children.”

Bitterly, his son muttered, “Yes, we do. B-_better_ than you realize.”

“Then you should understand why I’m not okay with the three of you wandering around—”

Bursting into the conversation with a voice like placating sunshine, Mabel interposed, “You are absolutely right, Mister Babcock, and I totally understand where you’re coming from. We should absolutely not _wander around_ town, and we will all promise you not to do that.”

{Ha! You clever little devils!} Detoby crowed, honking his spectral horn in approval.

“We will?” Dipper asked disbelievingly.

“Er, y-yeah. Fine,” Norman agreed, though he wasn’t sure to what he was agreeing. “Promise.”

“I . . . guess,” Dipper conceded after a sideways glance at his far-too-innocent-looking sister.

“Well . . . good,” Perry declared, though he felt somewhat suspicious of this sudden compliance with his wishes. Nearly two decades of fatherhood had trained him to expect ceaseless resistance to whatever he decided. This is probably why, as he pulled up outside the Babcock residence, he specified, “Just to be clear, you all promise to stay here?”

Mabel flowed out of the car like darkness flows out of night. Then she pirouetted around to say, “Well, sure! If you like, Mister Babcock, we will gladly promise to stay right here in this exact spot and not even budge an inch all day, no matter what.”

Checking his frustration by reminding himself that girls will be girls (and sometimes so much worse than boys), Perry clarified, “You don’t have to stay in this exact spot all day. I’m asking—”

“Oh, so you’re alright if we move around?” Mabel inquired brightly.

“Well, of course I am. I just want you to stay—”

“Here,” Mabel primly finished for him. “Yessir! We will stay here, moving around only a little *cough(geographicallyspeaking)cough* and will absolutely not wander around town. We promise!”

Detoby, meanwhile, was beside himself with amusement (even if he was literally floating beside the Medium).

“Er . . . Yeah. I guess. So long as we can use the internet,” Dipper stipulated quickly (to better play along with his sister).

{Ha!} Detoby crowed. {These two are the limit, and no mistake!}

For his part, Norman (whether by cleverness or sound instinct) stood beside the others and folded his arms in feigned sullenness. “Whatever. Sure. I p-promise, too.”

Perry’s eye twitched. Why had he ever decided he wanted kids? But he had at least gotten what he wanted out of this conversation, so he decided to cut his losses while he was ahead. “Thanks, kids,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll see you later tonight. Remember your promise,” he added as a parting shot. And then he drove away.

With a contented smile, Mabel gloated aloud, “Oh, we won’t forget that we promised not to _wander around town_. And we’ll keep that promise; we won’t _wander_, because we know exactly where we’re going: to investigate the home of this town’s favorite creepoid, L’il Gideon.”

“Didn’t we promise to stay here, too?” Dipper asked slyly.

“We agreed (and I quote) to move around ‘only a little *cough(geographicallyspeaking)cough*’ from here. And that’s all we’re going to do,” she elaborated. “Geographically speaking, L’il Gideon’s is only a little from here. He must be okay with that, since it’s what he made us agree to.”

Detoby guffawed, {Ha! This Jane will make a crackerjack attorney one day!}

“M-maybe he wasn’t aware of the fine print,” Norman joked.

Mabel snorted derisively. “Don’t be silly. It was an oral contract, and the spoken word can’t have fine print. Because it’s not printed. Duh.”

Dipper sighed, “Mabel . . .”

“Blarg,” she retorted.

{A hard-hitting, heartless attorney,} Detoby added disapprovingly.

“W-whatever,” Norman said quickly. “Let’s just go. Or do we m-maybe want to research a little into Endsville first?”

Dipper snapped his fingers at that. “Oh, yeah! Good thinking, man! Let’s quickly see how that fits into the other towns—maybe it’ll give us a clue—and then we can cut directly through town (not wandering or deviating in the slightest from our course, like we promised, heh heh) to Gideon’s.”

“D-don’t you mean, ‘TO GIDEON’S!’?” Norman asked, feigning a dramatic pointing. “Since, y’know, you d-do that all the time.”

“I do _not_ do that all the time . . . Do I?”

“Much as I hate to agree with Fakey, you do kinda do that a lot,” Mabel contradicted him.

“Well, it wouldn’t make sense to do it just now, because first we need to go TO THE INTERNET!”

****

When You Go Yoga had been purged of every last germ, Esmerelsa left the studio with the most enlightened feeling she had ever had. She even returned the yoga instructor’s bow and “Namaste”, though it must be said that hers was devoid of the passive-aggression that was present in his. Somehow, between the physical exercise of a deep cleaning and the mind-clearing, meditative focus it required (and likely thanks in part to prolonged exposure to more than a few chemical fumes), she had reached a transcendental state of serenity. Everything would go perfectly tonight with Stanford. She was sure of it.

She stepped into the street and saw it—truly saw it—as if for the first time. Everything was beautiful in its own way. The soft, silvery sibilance of the mist . . . The perfectly balanced wisps of fog . . . The solid reality of the sidewalk and the road which upheld her frame . . . The vibrant, living colors on the psychedelic logo of You Go Yoga . . . The poised corporeality of the Chinese acrobats in the first flier, and the bold fonts for “poetry-reading and book-signing” in the second flier, and the snapshot sensuality of the dancers in the third flier . . . Were they dancing a tango, too? Did the script on the flier read “International Tango Federation” and “Dance for the Cure”? Or was that just her awakened third eye seeing the truth of matters for the first time?

Looking down the street, she saw—truly saw—the beauty in every other little thing, as well. Overwhelming . . . or almost, but she had temporarily transcended such earthly concepts as being overwhelmed or underwhelmed . . . She was simply being whelmed by everything.

And, as if a sign from the Great Oneness itself, she happened to pass a boutique with a gorgeous new evening dress hanging in the window—just perfect for tangoing. It was her color, too: silvery gray. Just like the dress she had worn on Tuesday night . . . that perfect night when she and Stanford had gone to The Club and reconnected yet again . . . But, unlike that dress, the cut of this one was more deliberately, seductively feminine. Almost like a toga for a modern, Greek goddess. It was exactly how she wanted her Stanford to see her: powerful, irresistible, and ready for his worship.

She purchased it at once, along with a matching sliver necklace, silvery shoes, and a silvery wrap (because it was still unseasonably chilly outside). An additional wad of cash saw that it was immediately fitted to her still curvy frame. This, of course, made a great story for the shopkeeper afterwards—both because it entailed the retail of a complete ensemble (which was as expensive as it was gorgeous) to a walk-in client, but also because it was the first time she had ever sold merchandise to someone wearing a hazmat suit.

Afterwards, Esmerelsa gratefully returned to her lodgings. Ablutions in rubbing alcohol burned away the grime and the aches and pains of her yoga session, and then she yielded herself to the luxury of an afternoon nap. She was certain, after all, that she would need plenty of rest now before her later date with Stanford.

When they would tango like the old days . . . before Panama . . .

****

The internet connection was, once again, vexingly slow; it seemed to take forever for the first page (the Wikipedia page, of course) for “Endsville, California” to load. But when it did, it was well worth the wait.

“Ahem. ‘Endsville, California is considered to be one of the most paranormal places in the USA, with reports of hauntings and other phenomenon consistently among the top five in the country’,” Dipper read off of the page.

“Well, _that_ was easy. N-now we know its connection with the other towns—they’re all supernatural hotspots,” Norman observed.

“Mmm,” Dipper concurred. “It also says, ‘Local legends purport that the town is built atop an entrance to the netherworld—dating back to legends of the native population, who believed that it was the summer home of Old Grumpy Bone Spirit’ which has a link to . . . Wow. The fricative Grim Reaper,” he exclaimed mildly. “Now we know where Death takes a holiday.”

Norman nodded, then speculated, “And m-maybe why some of the kids from there thought that they were being stalked by the Grim Reaper?”

“Makes sense,” Dipper said as he skimmed the page. “It even says here that some witnesses claim they’ve seen the Grim Reaper going grocery shopping at a local market . . .”

“Obviously for dairy. Gotta take good care of those bones,” Mabel quipped from the couch.

{Didn’t you discover that Cityburgh is supposed to have some of the most Martian sightings?} Detoby inquired of the Medium.

{Martians?} Elaine broke in from the other side of the room. {Now there are Martians?}

“What about it?” Norman returned.

“What about what?” Mabel challenged him, believing he was attacking her joke.

Flinching involuntarily, the Medium apologized, “S-sorry, but not you. Detoby.”

“Oh, here we go again . . .”

“Mabel, please,” Dipper chided her. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

{I’m only saying that some of the kids in Cityburgh, once they started acting strangely, claimed they were being pursued by Extraterrestrials. In a town where people claim to see them all the time—like Endsvillians claim to see the Grim Reaper all the time. Might be a connection there, Bugbear.}

Norman transmitted all of that immediately, even adding, “P-plus that kid in Amity Park (a really haunted place) th-though it was a ghost. So all that suggests, like we g-guessed last night, that we’re really dealing with the same thing. People just keep describing it differently because of where they live and w-what they expect to see.”

“But _what_ is it?” Mabel voiced aloud.

Dipper sighed. “_That_ is what we don’t know . . . _yet_. But it probably looks like a scary person in dark clothes, and could be an agent of the Shadow President (or aliens, or both—who can say?—since they probably work together anyway).”

Detoby pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. {Again with the Illuminati nonsense . . .}

Something niggled at the back of Norman’s mind, but still he had no idea why precisely that bothered him. And he sighed as well.

“Why don’t we ask our _supposed_ ghost expert?” Mabel rhetoricized pointedly. “Is it a ghost?”

“M-maybe. It could be a p-poltergeist attached to the fog, but . . . I don’t believe so,” he stated, quiet and shy.

“It hasn’t left footprints at any of the scenes,” Dipper told his sister. “So it could be. Or it could be aliens with hover technology. Or something that moves through the trees. We don’t know, like I told you already. Which is why we need to go to Gideon’s and look for more answers.”

{You’re going out _again_?!} Elaine exclaimed. {Even though there’s been another kidnapping?}

Norman, so as to not incur Mabel’s ire again, made no answer. Instead, he simply looked at his Grandmother and nodded once.

Elaine bit her lip. {I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Normy . . .}

{I’m sure we’ll be fine,} Detoby assured her. {After all, I’ll be there the whole time.}

{. . . I’ve now got a _very_ bad feeling about this, Normy.}

{Yeeouch . . .}

Heaving herself upright, Her Dark Grace muttered, “About time. Thought we’d spend all day here on the internet . . . Hey, Fakey?”

“Y-yeah?” Norman asked nervously.

“Not that I care about you getting in trouble or whatever, but . . . You should probably call your M-Mom . . .” Mabel cleared her throat before continuing (almost as clearly as before), “Call her before we go. So she knows where you are and like you have some plausible deniability with your Dad later. Like ‘Mom said it was okay if I hang with my friends’ and stuff.”

Surprised, Norman could only say, “Th-thanks. I’ll d-do that right now.”

And, while the Medium took care of that, Dipper caught his sister’s eye. “That was nice.”

“Yeah, well . . . If he gets in trouble, it’ll slow down our investigation,” she retorted.

It took a few tries for the call to connect to the flower shop where Sandra now spent her afternoons (given all the interference still wreaking havoc with the phone service). But when it finally got through, she was elated to hear that Norman planned to—as he _very_ deliberately put it—“hang out all day with Dipper and his sister, j-just hang out and maybe go to a f-friend of their’s house”. She, naturally, told him that was “Okay!” when he asked—so long as they were careful and stayed together.

Lying to your own mother. You are a terrible person.

His grandmother did not approve of this deviousness, of course. {At least tell her where you’re planning on going, Normy!} she insisted.

“S-sorry, Grandma, but she already hung up. Besides, we’ll be fine!” Norman assured her with forced optimism. “Just watch your stories, and don’t worry about us.”

Lying to your own grandmother. You’re even worse than can be believed.

{Normy . . .}

“W-we need to go now. Bye!” And the boy Medium walked out the door to rejoin the twins before she could raise another objection. “Let’s go,” he whispered to them, “Before she decides to come along, too.”

Mabel narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And who is this ‘she’?”

“His grandma,” Dipper answered for his friend. “How is she, by the way?”

{Deathing death to the fullest,} Detoby quipped as he floated along beside them.

But Norman ignored it, saying instead, “C-convinced this is a bad idea. Again.”

“Well, it probably is,” Dipper replied blithely. “But if we start letting that stop us, we’ll never do anything fun.”

Mabel snorted. “You can say that again, Bro-Bro. Should be your personal motto. You given any more thought as to ‘why at all’ like the Commissioner that is me suggested?”

With an expansive gesture of aggravation, Dipper replied, “_How_ are we supposed to deduce the _why_ if we don’t even know the _what_, sis?”

“Or _who_,” Norman added pensively. “Or both.”

You’ll never figure it out. You’re not smart enough to stop it taking—

“White dresses,” Norman murmured to himself, so low no one else could hear. It worked.

“It might help you figure that out, though,” Mabel countered obviously. “A new angle to consider. Like, think about it: Why do people even kidnap other people in the first place?”

{Ransom?} Detoby guessed.

The Medium transmitted that answer, but the behatted boy waved it away. “Nope. There were no demands in any of the other towns, and there aren’t any here.”

“What about revenge?” she suggested.

“B-but . . . there doesn’t s-seem to be a connection for all of the kids here,” Norman objected.

“And none of our research turned up any connections between the victims in any of the other towns—let alone a connection between the victims of one town and the victims of another,” Dipper pointed out to his sister. “You’d think the police somewhere would’ve managed to spot a pattern if there was one . . . Hey, are you alright, Mabel? You look kinda—I dunno—worn out.”

She waved away his concern. “It’s nothing. What about revenge against the parents?”

“Uh, if you’re sure . . . Anyway, that seems slimmer than revenge against the kids . . . Basically, the only definite connections are: teenage victims (between 12 and 17, I think), bizarre and sudden paranoia, creepy fog . . .”

“So it’s random victims? ‘Crimes of opportunity’, as they say in ‘Duck-tective’?” Mabel posited.

Her brother shrugged. “Looks that way.”

They walked on through the leaden, afternoon haze in silence for a while.

“S-so . . . Why teenagers? Why kids?” Norman wondered aloud. “What would a s-supernatural creature want with _them_?”

Without missing a beat, Mabel suggested, “Food. Could be food.”

“You think it _eats_ them?” Dipper asked, absolutely horrified.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Think of all the fairytales,” she reasoned. “Witches, wolves, ogres, vampires . . . Practically everything wants to eat kids.”

Dipper shuddered and involuntarily scanned their surroundings for anyone or anything stalking them. All he saw through the layer of mist (that was beginning to feel like a permanent fixture of the landscape) were the normal buildings of Gravity Falls and, here and there, the normal townsfolk more-or-less going about their normal business. “Let’s hope that’s not the case here . . .”

{Or turn them into servants—like fairies did,} Detoby mentioned, which the Medium conveyed to the twins.

The behatted boy declared, “That’s definitely a preferable scenario. Let’s hope it’s that.”

As she proceeded along with slightly less grace and bearing than befits a Duchess of Darkness (probably due to her shortness of breath), Mabel observed, “If this were a horror flick . . . they’d probably all be sacrificial victims to resurrect a pagan god . . .”

All three of her male companions turned to stare at her in shock.

“What? It’s true. That’d totally be the plot if . . . this were a movie.”

“Were you possessed by some sort of gothic demon?” her brother demanded. “I feel like that’s not something my sister would say unless possessed by a gothic demon.”

In a rush to reassure his friend, Norman stated, “Don’t worry; she’s not possessed.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I don’t see . . . Er . . .” Feeling the eyes of the Pines twins and Detoby on him, Norman faltered. “W-well, I’d see whatever was possessing her, and I don’t see—”

Breathless with awestruck excitement, Dipper exclaimed, “You can see when someone’s possessed, too?! That’s incredible!”

“Sure is,” Mabel panted flatly. “In the old sense of the word, meaning that it’s _unbelievable_.”

“Quiet, _you_! Don’t even try to ruin how cool this is!” her brother snapped.

She huffed at that. And possibly from physical exertion.

{I never knew you could do that!} Detoby said, clearly impressed.

“It’s n-no big deal—hasn’t come up or anything,” Norman said bashfully, his hand already running through his vertical hair. “Just l-looks like the person has a g-ghostly sorta aura, is all . . .”

“Cool!”

“Fake,” Mabel muttered. “Can we get back to talking about something that isn’t revolting—like pagan sacrifices or monsters eating children?”

Now it was Dipper’s turn to huff at her. “First of all, I doubt it’s a pagan sacrifice because that just sounds ridiculous—”

“Says the guy who brings up . . . aliens and the Shadow President,” she retorted, almost panting.

“—and second of all, if it were doing something physical like eating them, wouldn’t it leave physical traces? Footprints? Claw marks? Blood stains?”

{It would only leave bloodstains if it chomped them on the scene,} Detoby reasoned. {Assuming, of course, it doesn’t consume its prey in one big bite.}

Norman considered that, then countered, “But then it would need a huge mouth, and anything with a mouth that big—”

“What are you babbling about, Shimsham O’Gabby?” Mabel broke in.

“Oh. Uh, D-Detoby says there’d only be b-bloodstains if it eats them on s-scene. And not, like, carries them off to a lair,” the Medium clarified.

“Assuming it doesn’t swallow them whole,” Dipper realized.

“Th-that’s what he said. But then, it’d need a h-huge mouth. And anything with a mouth that big w-would probably be witnessed, right?” Norman finished his thought.

“One would think . . .” the behatted boy replied. “One would _hope_ . . .”

“Unless it’s some sorta . . . giant snake hiding in the trees . . .” Mabel interjected, her breathing too heavy for her tone to be light.

Once again, all three of her male companions turned to stare at her in shock.

{Why would she say something that spine-chilling?}

“Sis, are you sure you’re okay?” Dipper asked again, worry in his voice. “You seriously look like you’re struggling there.”

{Probably red in the face under all that nightmare mime make-up—mimemare make-up!} Detoby corrected himself quickly and quippily. Of course, he did honk his horn after it.

“I’m _fine_,” she panted. “Just . . . carrying a lot of weight on this outfit. Grandeur has its price.”

“Probably doesn’t help that you’ve refused to eat properly over the past couple months,” her brother couldn’t resist adding in the I-told-you-so tone of voice which all siblings secretly relish having the chance to use.

With the maturity of an older sister, Mabel riposted, “Your face is butt, and your butt is butt.”

Timidly, Norman offered, “We could, um, c-carry your backpack for you?”

{Such chivalry!} Detoby lauded him.

Forcing herself to march faster than the boys, she answered, “You can carry your butt, Fakey . . . We’re almost there, anyway—it’s just around the corner . . . Try to keep up, butt-faces and butt-butts!”

****

Paul Oftarzis, Grand Goth of the Woodbury Consortium, had been preoccupied with plans for storming William Henry Harrison Middle and High School the last time he’d entered the mountain valley of Gravity Falls; as a result, he had hardly noticed the sudden fog that enshrouded it. But when he had driven his own car into it on Friday afternoon, he had been astounded at how localized it seemed to this one valley. One moment, he’d been powering up the pass in clear September sunshine. The next, he was at its crest and looking down over a slowly churning bowl of mist. Uncanny, it was. Eerie, even. As if a cold, soupy curse hung upon Gravity Falls like a gazpacho of evil . . .

Samuel Turley, Keeper of the Precepts for the Gravity Falls Consortium, had been likewise astounded when Paul Oftarzis drove them both out of it—when they had suddenly peaked on the pass, and were instantly in sunshine. “But I do not understand this . . . How can it only lie on this one town?”

“It’s a dark omen . . . And not in the way we goths usually mean that. It’s a . . . well, a _bad_ omen for Gravity Falls,” Paul had finished lamely.

“Ebony is somewhere in there—somewhere in that cursed fog . . .”

“How long has he/she been gone?” Paul had asked in a hushed voice.

“Since sometime late Sunday night . . . or perhaps early Monday morning. It is unclear.”

“And . . . do you think she/he is—”

“Yes!” the Keeper of the Precepts had answered fiercely. “He/She is still alive! I won’t give up hope on that. We’re going to find him/her!”

“Of course . . . Of course . . .”

The drive had been a somber one after that, the mountain sunshine notwithstanding. But, eventually, they reached the home of Vietnamese Helena Bonham. Where the Dark Council awaited their arrival.

“Well . . . The moment of our doom is nigh,” the Grand Goth of Woodbury uttered anxiously.

“Are you nervous?

“I would be a fool to feel otherwise . . . But this is the will of Dark Providence.” Squaring his shoulders, he directed Samuel Turley, “Follow my lead.” And then he marched forward to ring the bell.

A moment later, the mother of Vietnamese Helena Bonham answered the door. “Oh, Pauly! Good to see you! They’ve been expecting you downstairs. Just go on down.”

“Er, th-thank you.”

“And this must be another one of your little goth friends,” she said as she beamed over Paul’s shoulder at Samuel Turley. “Pleased to meet you!”

“Er, charmed I’m sure to make your acquaintance,” the Keeper of the Precepts responded.

“Well, don’t let me keep you. I know you have important secret club stuff to discuss. I’ll just be up here finishing more bánh bông lan for your meeting.”

“You are, as always, a dark angel,” Paul Oftarzis stated.

“And you, as always, are such a little charmer! Now scoot!”

Of course, the basement was candlelit. Six high-backed chairs still sat in a penumbral circle—five of them already filled. Their occupants rose as Paul Oftarzis descended the stairs to greet him, “Hail, brother of the Dark Order!”

“Well met by candlelight,” he returned nervously.

“What news of the heretical uprising in Gravity Falls?” Vietnamese Helena Bonham inquired. “Were you successful in quelling it, as you planned?”

“We must admit we were concerned to not hear a report from you before now,” another said.

“Yeah. Like . . . was something wrong with your phone, or something?”

“Have you brought us the cloak of that rogue—that arch-blasphemer—Samuel Turley?”

“Um . . . Well . . .”

Emerging from Paul Oftarzis’s shadow, the Keeper of the Precepts affirmed, “He brought more than just my cloak, Your Grand Gothness . . . es.”

There was a collective gasp from the Dark Council. With narrowed eyes and accusation in her tone, Vietnamese Helena Bonham sneered, “You! Have you come to recant and beg our forgiveness for your sacrilegious profanity, O fallen Keeper of the Precepts?”

“No.”

“Outrageous!”

“Unforgivable!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

Vietnamese Helena Bonham held up a jewelry-covered hand for silence from her peers. “Then you still assert your unholy lies that the Promised One has come to your backwater town in the guise of a impertinent, pretentious little girl?”

“Yes.”

“Outrageous!”

“Unforgivable!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

Paul Oftarzis cleared his throat. “And . . . H-he . . . He does not assert this alone.”

“Oh?” Glowering at the chubby prophet in his dark cloak, she asked, “What other lies does he assert?”

“No, I meant that . . . I mean that _I_ assert it, _too_.”

“WHAT?!” One of the Grand Goths burst out of their chair so violently that it upended. “WHAT?! Are you bewitched, man?! Y’know, bewitched in a totally _uncool_, _ungoth_ way?!”

“I have seen signs and wonders of Dark Providence,” Paul Oftarzis said simply. “The Stickers of Shame would not adhere to his person, and the lights died when he spoke. The very darkness testifies of his truthfulness. My eyes were opened, and I now must testify of what I saw. My whole consortium, too. We all testify of the Truth. That we are free to do whatever we like, so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. This is the fulfillment of the precepts. This is true gothness.”

“B-blasphemy!”

“Heresy!”

“Sacrilege!”

“Outrageous!”

“Unforgivable!”

“We should start an angry mob!”

“ENOUGH!” Vietnamese Helena Bonham cried aloud, and all fell silent. “Then you . . . then you _both_ have unrepentantly turned your backs upon the Dark Order?”

The Grand Goth of Woodbury shook his head. “No. We have turned our backs on the vanity that made us care more for rank and appearance than we did for Truth and . . . and our own Freedom. Freedom which leads to happiness. We have turned _towards_ the true Dark Order.”

Her black-colored lips twisted, as though some bile were upon her tongue. Finally, she spat, “_Poseurs_. The _both_ of you. By the authority vested in me—the authority to divest you!” she added, as if wrath leant her biting wit, “I name you _poseurs_. You _and_ your consortiums!”

“Poseurs! Poseurs!” the other members of the Dark Council hissed.

Paul Oftarzis winced, as though slapped. It was as he had feared: they were now all pariahs. But then, Beside him, Samuel Turley laid a strengthening hand on his shoulder . . . as if to say that none of them stood alone now . . .

“You are henceforth and forever _excommunicated_,” she continued imperiously. “You will be ostracized from all _true_ gothic events, for you are no _true_ Grand Goth nor Keeper of the Precepts. May your clothes fail to impress and impose, may your makeup ever smear and run, may your piercings lose themselves in drawers and behind couch cushions, and may your CDs always scratch!” she cursed them.

And the circle of other Grand Goths hissed their condemnation.

Paul Oftarzis looked up and met Samuel Turley’s eyes. There was something . . . ironic in them. Something unbowed. In fact, it was something utterly untouched by the curse which the Dark Council now laid upon them—something which found the very idea that they would try to curse them laughable. As if children playing “Operation” were critiquing heart surgeons. No, as if children playing “dress-up” were telling fashion designers what was truly haute couture. No, something more absurd still—something which mere analogies could not convey! It was _true_ gothness in his eyes. _True_ Darkness, which recognized that this so-called Dark Council was just a collection of shadows trying to command the night itself. This was mere absence of light, and nothing more.

And the Grand Goth of Woodbury realized then that he and the Keeper of the Precepts of Gravity Falls—that they alone—were the only one ones in this laundry-scented basement worthy of their titles. They alone were free; they alone were true goths, and would be true goths even if they wore bright colors and shiny stickers. That realization made them both smile at each other.

Beyond them, one of the other Grand Goths decreed, “They’re unworthy even to wear the insignias of gothness! They should be forced to forsake piercings and makeup and CDs and everything dark in color, lest they besmirch our Dark Order’s reputation!”

“Yes! We must take the insignias of their former ranks!” the others concurred.

And then, much to the surprise of those encircling them, the ostracized ones began to laugh. Loudly and merrily, with their whole bodies shaking.

“F-fine!” the Keeper of the Precepts snickered, trying (and failing) to stand with solemn dignity. “You want this amulet? Hehehe! Then take it!” And he snapped off the jewelry and cast it at the feet of Vietnamese Helena Bonham.

“Indeed, y-yes! Take mine, as well!” Paul Oftarzis agreed. “May it augment your gothic appearance in the eyes of others! That’s clearly their _only_ value for you!”

“R-right? Ha! What about this lipstick and guyliner? Do you want it, too? Then here it is!”

“Have mine as well! And my nosering—I never liked it anyway!”

“Y-yeah! I always thought they made us look like we had boogers hanging out of our noses!”

Paul Oftarzis gasped, and then laughed. “I thought I was the only one!”

Nearly apoplectic, Vietnamese Helena Bonham screeched, “DO NOT MAKE A MOCKERY OF ONE OF OUR MOST HALLOWED TRADITIONS!”

“Yeah!” one of the Grand Goths agreed. “Stop ruining it for us! Poseurs!”

“Pffhahaha! But you’ve already ruined it for yourselves!” the Keeper of the Precepts laughed.

“How dare you?! You, who once held the Gothicnomicon for your consortium?!”

“Oh, right . . . Here, take that, too!” With that, Samuel Turley drew the leather-bound tome from within his cloak and cast it upon the pile of jewelry and makeup. “I need it no longer—I already know it cover to cover! Haha! Certainly much better than any of you!”

Paul Oftarzis chimed in again. “And my Umbral Umbrella, too! Take it!” And it was tossed.

“And my cloak?” the Keeper of the Precepts guffawed. “You want my cloak, too? Well then . . . Actually, I really like this cloak, so I intend to keep it (and since I did pay for it, it is my rightful property, because _capitalism_—BOOM!), but you can have these stupid rings, and . . . and . . . What else?”

“And mine! And my hat! Take it all! Haha!”

The other Grand Goths exchanged increasingly fearful glances. “They . . . they have gone mad!”

“A frenzy is upon them! A frenzy, I say!”

“They’re not going to strip off all their clothes, are they?!”

Another goth blushed underneath their paling makeup. “Th-that would be . . . terrible . . . I certainly hope they refrain from *ahem* CASTING ASIDE THEIR SHIRTS. AND PANTS.”

Stamping irately, Vietnamese Helena Bonham shrilled, “ENOUGH! I WILL NOT BE MOCKED IN MY OWN DUNGEON!”

“It’s a _basement_!” Paul Oftarzis giggled. “With a l-_laundry_ _machine_ and a p-_pingpong_ _table_!”

“OUT!” she shrieked. “BLASPHEMERS, BOTH! BEGONE!”

The Keeper of the Precepts offered no resistance, though he did quip, “Now _that’s_ alliteration!”

“I NEVER WANT TO SEE EITHER OF YOU AGAIN!”

At that moment (concerned by all the yelling), her mother opened the door and peeked down. “What’s going on down there, Sweetie?”

Her daughter shielded her eyes from the sudden onslaught of light. “MOM! WE’RE BUSY EXCOMMUNICATING POSEUR INFIDELS DOWN HERE!”

“That doesn’t sound very fun. Can’t you and your little goth friends all just play nice?”

Ascending the stairs insouciantly, Paul Oftarzis interceded, “Never fear. We were just leaving.”

“Already? But you only just arrived! You haven’t even had any of my famous bánh bông lan!” the mother protested.

“MOM! DON’T OFFER DESSERTS TO THESE FAITHLESS DESERTERS!”

The mother clicked her teeth disapprovingly. “Are you having another one of your tirades? Come have a snack; it’ll calm you down.”

“I AM CALM! I AM AS CALM AS THE DEAD OF NIGHT!”

Both of the excommunicated goths slipped upstairs. “It’s probably for the best that we just leave right now,” Paul Oftarzis excused them both politely. “But you have my gratitude for your hospitality. You are a saint of hospitality, and an excellent cook to boot.”

“Oh, Pauly!” she gushed. And then, in a hushed tone, she promised, “I’ll send some to you with your mother when she comes to play bridge tomorrow.”

“A thousand thanks and a thousand blessings go with you on pitch black wings.”

“Oh, you charmer!”

With that, both boys departed the house of their former comrade. They were soon wending their way through mountain roads, back in the direction of Gravity Falls. They giggled occasionally to themselves at the sheer of absurdity of everything that had just transpired, but eventually fell into their own thoughts.

“Am I still the Grand Goth of Woodbury, do you reckon?” Paul Oftarzis wondered at one point.

“I would imagine that depends on what your consortium wishes.”

“Hmm . . .”

“But if you are, then it is incumbent upon you to lead them as . . . to be as free as they can.”

“As you say,” the Grand Goth concurred.

After they had climbed the pass, and as they looked down back over the leaden valley, the Keeper of the Precepts sighed heavily. “I will find you . . .” he murmured to the person who he refused to lose.

“Would you . . . By your leave, Woodbury could come help search for Ebony Ravenspath.”

“Yes. Yes, please,” Samuel Turley said at once.

“As you wish. I’ll convoke as many of my consortium as I can, and we shall convoy to Gravity Falls tomorrow morning.”

“May the Darkness be forever over you for this kindness.”

“And may the Darkness be over her/him, and over all the other people who have been taken. May it shield them all from harm.”


	17. Chapter 17

Breathless and drained, Mabel reached the Gleeful residence first. “M-made it . . .” she heaved as gravity finally bent her forward. Still, she managed to call out to the others (under her shoulder, if not over it), “H-hurry up! What’s . . . taking you so . . . so long?! Can’t you r . . . run like a g-girl?!”

“Mabel, jeez, sit down for a sec . . .” Her brother grimaced. Even if the white and black of her makeup hid the red in her face, he could still see the sweat running in beads down it; she was visibly winded, as well. When he forcibly removed her backpack from her shoulders, she didn’t even resist. “Just catch your breath or something before you make yourself throw-up . . . What the heck is even your problem? Why’d you have to jog ahead like that?”

“P-perfectly . . . fine!” she huffed (in both senses of the word). However, much to Dipper’s relief, she did sit against the enormous “As Seen on TV!” billboard erected beside the Gleeful residence.

{Well, we’re here … and it’s queer,} Detoby stated.

The boy Medium gaped. “W-what?”

{It’s _strange_, is what I’m telling you, Bugaboo. The yard is so … perfect. Too perfect, even. But the dicks are all out and still dicking around the place.}

The boy Medium gaped a second time. “W-what?! Where?!”

{Well, they’re right there,} the Jokergeist said with an obvious point to the police and forensic specialists at work. {The detectives. They’re still detecting.}

The boy Medium actually sighed with relief at the clarification; of course “dick” meant “detective”.

{So now what?}

Then, from behind him, the Medium heard Dipper ask, “Something up? Detoby say anything?”

Norman echoed his question for the others. “N-now what? He asked what’s next.”

“Now, we _investigate_!” Dipper declared enthusiastically. Then, taking in the forensic van parked directly in front of the house (as well as the analysts still at work in the garden and the house), he deduced, “The cops are still here and still combing the place for evidence—”

“No? Really? Do you think?” Mabel asked sarcastically.

“W-why are there so many here, and not at the other houses?” Norman wondered.

“Probably because of how beloved Gideon was with the townsfolk. And the police department, especially. Sheriff Blubbs was like the VP of his fanclub—I’m not even joking,” Dipper answered. “Anyway (as I was deducing before I was so _rudely_ interrupted by a party which shall remain nameless, but is totally my sister), we want to see what it is they find, but they’re probably not going to let us get close enough to see for ourselves. So . . . wouldn’t it be _just swell_ if we had someone who could get close enough to hear and see everything _without_ being detected?” He glanced hopefully around Norman, figuring he’d catch Detoby somewhere in that vicinity.

The Jokergeist laid a finger aside of his bulbous nose. {You can count on m—}

“Well, I _am_ the ninja,” Mabel conceded, unknowingly interrupting the ghost. “But I think this might be beyond even _my_ sk—”

Norman cleared his throat nervously. “S-sorry, Mabel, but he w-was—”

“What do you want, Fakey?” she demanded coldly. So coldly Norman actually winced.

That’s how you deserve to be treated. Like they did in Blithe Hollow, and like they will again.

“I was talking to Detoby, Mabel,” Dipper sighed. “To the _invisible_ one here.”

“Seriously? For evidence, we’re going to count on Fakey’s imaginary—”

“Mabel!” Dipper warned her. “Detoby, would you mind?”

{Tell him I’m already as gone as his sister’s pleasant disposition.} And the Jokergeist glowered at her as he phased through the rose hedge.

Not meeting anyone’s eye, the Medium said, “H-he’s on his way.”

Crossing her arms, Mabel groused, “So what are we supposed to do while Fakey decides what scam he’s going to feed us?”

“If you want to be a part of that ‘we’, you’re going to stop being such an uncivil stinkface,” her brother responded with an edge to his voice. “You’re not exactly being helpful right now. _Or_ nice.”

“Whatever. _Fine_,” she muttered. “What do we do now? Talk to the neighbors?”

“Yep. And, as luck would have it, it seems most of them are out to gawk,” Dipper answered, surveying the people who watched from doorsteps or front room windows. “What do you think? Shall we play it like we’re concerned friends?”

Mabel’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Ugh . . . Do we have to?”

“You could pretend to be his distraught girlfriend.”

Her face actually spasmed. “I think I just . . . threw up in my mouth a little . . .”

“D-Dipper?” Norman ventured shyly. “Um . . . I’ve g-got an idea for something I could try?”

“Yeah? Shoot, man.”

“It’s not just n-_neighbors_ . . .” Trying to completely avoid the gothic girl’s eye, he explained, “Not just l-_living_ ones, I mean.”

“Ghosts?” Dipper asked interestedly, ignoring his sister’s quiet scoff. “How many?”

“A f-few . . . Five, maybe? I can s-see five from here. Even with the fog.”

“Hmm . . . You wanna talk to them while Mabel and I get the neighbors who aren’t dead?”

First chance he gets, he picks someone else’s company over—

“Since you’re the only one who can talk to them anyway,” Dipper continued. “And since you already know all the information we’re looking for.”

“S-sure,” Norman agreed, brightening at the compliment.

“One thing, though—very important,” the behatted boy added. “I don’t want you out of my sight for a second. Can you do so while staying clearly visible on the road?”

A sudden spark of happiness lit up Norman’s heart, and his hand crept up his hair. “Y-yeah . . .” he stammered, red creeping into his cheeks. “I can t-totally do that.”

“Okay. Sweet. We’re not actually splitting up—that’d be dumb with all the disappearances—we’re just dividing and conquering while still being in sight of each other,” Dipper declared. “Break!”

The Pines twins had the benefit of being able to speak openly and directly with their interviewees, most of whom were only too happy to gossip about the disappearance of L’il Gideon (albeit in hushed tones of voices, with the occasional shake of the head and the sad murmur of “It’s such a shame . . .” or “It’s a real tragedy . . .” or something similar); however, for all her disarming charm, Mabel’s current appearance (a goth demon who had recently melted a la nazis in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”) was something of a liability in getting people to speak candidly. Everyone agrees that people ought not judge books by their covers, but they’d all agree it’s hard not to when the cover looks like it might be morbidly enjoying discussing bad news (and might perhaps even be responsible for the bad news, and every personal tragedy the interviewee has suffered over the years, and possibly even for directing all the films that terrified them as children—including, but not limited to: “Gremlins”, “Gremlins II”, “Labyrinth”, “The Dark Crystal”, “It”, the entire “Saw” franchise, “Watcher in the Woods”, “Darby O’Gill and the Little People”, and the segment from “Fantasia” for Modest Mossorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain”). That’s just how creepy Mabel’s runny makeup had become.

The Medium, on the other hand, had the benefit of already being well-known and well-regarded among his spectral interviewees. Perhaps he did have to question them while holding a phone to his ear or while screened from the view of the living by a tree or a mailbox, but at least they were forthcoming with what little they knew. The little they knew, however, was summed up by one ghost’s declaration: {Didn’t see anything outside at all, I’m afraid. I’ve barely been out at all this past week, truth be told—spent pretty much all of it in my living room. Out here it’s just . . . “Brr!” is all I have to say,} they stated with a demonstrative shudder. {This fog makes me want a warm blanket and a hot cocoa. No weather to go out in, that’s for sure . . . It’s like the most depressing part of winter. So in answer to your question, no, I’m afraid I didn’t see that boy get taken.}

At any rate, Norman finished interviewing the departed just as Dipper and Mabel were preparing to knock on the last house—the house which faced the Gleeful residence.

“Find out anything?” the behatted boy asked his friend, who only shook his head.

“Us neither,” Mabel added disgruntledly. “Except that my makeup is running. No one saw what happened last night, but they can _all_ see that my makeup is running. Which is _so_ helpful to tell a hardworking police commissioner girl, let me tell you.” And, with that, she rang the bell.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Miz Atticals answered the door with her nose still buried in a well-thumbed copy of “Mansfield Park”. Her surprise, however, was greatest. Specifically when she saw Mabel. She screamed and startled, and her book went fluttering away like a fit little bird. “Pope Joan of (Wo)Mentz! Your face!”

“My makeup’s running,” Mabel explained impatiently. “I’m aware of it.”

“But you like a Georgia O’Keeffe portrait of a mime!”

Mabel resisted the urge to say, “And you look like a yarn anaconda—a yarnaconda—tried to swallow you and then choked.” Instead, she larked, “That’s the most educated comment anyone’s made about my apparel all day. Thank you, Miz Atticals! Now, if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you some questions about last night’s disappearance of resident child creeper, Gideon Gleeful.”

The English teacher opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again. She was looking at Mabel very thoughtfully. “Did you say ‘child creeper’?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Dipper broke in, “What my sister meant to say is—”

“Hush, boy,” Miz Atticals silenced him curtly. “Don’t be so phallocentric.”

Dipper blushed like a tomato. “I wasn’t being—”

“Yes, you were. You were being _quite_ phallocentric.”

Norman started giggling. He couldn’t believe she had just said the word “phallus” all willy-nilly in front of them. And then, he was giggling uncontrollably because he had thought the word “willy-nilly” in the same context as “phallus”.

“I’m perfectly certain that the young lady can express herself without your ‘help’,” Miz Atticals resumed in her clipped, sarcastic tone. Then, looking back to Mabel, she heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Men, am I right? Even the little ones.”

This earned an appraising regard, then a praising nod from the gothic girl. “Lady, my respect for you just went up about five notches.”

Meanwhile, Dipper (still blushing phallocentricly) grumbled, “I’m not little . . . Just young . . . Show you all one day when I’m bigger than all of you, then you’ll rue the day . . .”

“No talking in my class,” Miz Atticals reprimanded him like a disapproving clarinet.

“But . . . we’re n-not _in_ class,” Norman pointed out timidly.

The English teacher elected to ignore that totally factual statement, instead inquiring again of Mabel, “You called Gideon a ‘child creeper’. Why?”

“Because he’s tried to force me to be his girlfriend on several occasions. And steal my home. And maim or kill my phallocentric brother—”

“I AM NOT—”

“Hush, boy,” both his sister and his teacher told Dipper as one.

Norman, for his part, stood there trying not to snicker or look at his friend. And failing at it.

“Ergo, Miss Pines, you see Gideon Gleeful for what he _really_ is?” Miz Atticals surmised. “To whit: an impish monster hell-bent on no good?”

“Not sure I’d use the word ‘impish’ . . . ‘Psychotic’ is more my style,” Mabel stipulated slowly.

“I can respect such a stylistic decision. What do we have if not our own literary styles, after all? But if what you say is true, why do you care that the little beast has disappeared? Good riddance, say I!”

Norman reluctantly ventured the opinion, “B-because his disappearance is p-probably linked to the others. S-so, um, the more we know, the more likely we are to . . . uh, stop them.”

Miz Atticals considered that dubiously. “_You_ are trying to stop it—you three _children_? Have the police resorted to recruiting middleschoolers?”

“It’s an independent investigation, ma’am,” Dipper answered tightly. “Can you help us or not?”

“Mister Pines, perhaps if you read more _real_ books and fewer _comic_ books, you wouldn’t be so impatient or snappish,” the English teacher chided him. “Now, what would you like to know? I’m certain I shan’t be of any help to you, but I shan’t refrain from endeavoring.”

The behatted boy shuddered at the two almost-profanities.

“Did you see Gideon get taken?” Mabel asked straightly.

For a moment, Miz Atticals’ lips puckered like a clarinet’s mouthpiece. Eventually, she stated, “I’m not sure what I saw, exactly . . . I recall hearing him scream—at least, I _believe_ it was him. Certainly there was _a_ scream, though.”

“W-what time was that?” Norman inquired.

“I couldn’t even hazard a guess. It was late, though. After dark. Though this week, with this inclement weather . . .” She trailed off, gazing around at the haze which seemed to creep through the air and ensnare everything or everyone within it. “. . . It always seems to be dark this week. And cold, too. Like a pathetic fallacy in a book. Speaking of the cold, why are you not wearing a sweater, Mister Pines, like your fellow sleuths? You’ll catch your death.”

“Not cold, but I’ll take that under advisement, thank you,” Dipper replied tensely.

“Not cold? In those shorts? Stubborn boy,” she muttered to herself.

“Anything after he screamed?” Mabel prompted their witness. “Besides a faint, and perhaps slightly shameful sense of satisfaction?”

The English teacher snorted. “Heh. How very Austenian . . . Well, the scream naturally attracted my attention. I looked towards it—I was in my reading chair over there,” she added with a nod to a comfortable-looking armchair in her living room. “And I recall noticing a . . . a brightening light through my curtains. It seemed to shine more brightly and more brightly, as though someone were directing a light at my house. And then . . . suddenly, it went out. Most peculiar. Most eerie.”

Mabel glanced at her brother and gave him a smug, knowing look. “Hmm . . . Like _headlights_ maybe on a getaway car?”

But Miz Atticals shook her head. “I think not. The light was too . . . cold . . . too alien.”

“Alien, eh?” Dipper said, returning his sister’s smug, knowing look.

“Alien, yes. Meaning unfamiliar. It was uncanny. A very strange light that gave me goosebumps,” the English teacher uttered distantly. “Honestly, it . . . it made me feel uneasy. I shivered when I saw it. Certainly it was not a car. Besides,” she added, her voice becoming its usual, brisk piping, “I don’t recall hearing an engine or tires.”

Dipper gave Norman a significant look. “Just like the butler saw . . . old bean.”

Norman only groaned quietly in response, as though he were coping with an injury too painful to suffer in silence.

“What butler?” both Mabel and Miz Atticals inquired.

“Was it maybe a f-flashlight you saw?” Norman returned quickly.

“I . . . Perhaps, but I doubt it. The light seemed brighter than any flashlight I’ve ever seen. Besides, I peered out my window immediately after the scream and the light—_immediately_, I say—and there was no one in the Gleefuls’ garden, nor anyone on the street,” the woman avowed emphatically. “The fog’s not so think it could hide anyone large enough to lug off that pudgy child while I watched. And I _was_ watching _closely_ after that—I will bet my lifetime membership in the Virginia Wolfe Society. It’s as if they disappeared into thin air.”

“Speaking of that pudgy child,” Dipper segued. “Did you notice if he was acting paranoid at all? Any unusual outbursts?”

With a dry expression, Miz Atticals stated, “It would be hard to tell with that little demon. Frankly, I’m astounded more people don’t notice his sudden rages.”

“I know, right?” Mabel exclaimed. “It’s like: Hello! I’m a psychopath!”

“My sentiments exactly. He terrorizes his mother, you know.”

“Oh, I believe that. Poor woman.”

“And my cats. I don’t let them out anymore. And the neighborhood birds. I had to relocate my birdbath and birdfeeder to the backyard so that he couldn’t reach them.”

“No! He didn’t hurt them badly, did he?”

“Not that I could prove . . . Mark my words, uncharitable as they are,” the English teacher pronounced with such severe tones that Shakespeare, on the spot, would have made her Pauline from “A Winter’s Tale”. “It might prove better for us all if he never returns.”

That left the twins speechless. Norman swallowed, “H-harsh . . .”

“Perhaps. But he is an ill-omened child, and doubly so for the charisma he seems to wield. Now, did you have any further questions?” Miz Atticals piped at them.

They only shook their heads.

“Then here’s my advice to you three: _go home_, where you will be safe from whatever demon was powerful enough to take a demon like Gideon Gleeful.” And, with that, she closed her own door against the chill world outside.

The three children crossed the street in silence to stare through the wrought iron bars outside the Gleeful property. Fewer forensic technicians were present now, but some were still visibly at work. Eventually, Mabel intoned, “I was _sure_ that light would be a car . . .”

In a gesture of fraternal camaraderie, Dipper put an arm around her shoulder. “We thought so too at first, Norman and me. But it definitely wasn’t at Pacifica’s because the light was _inside_ of a locked wall. And no one heard a car at the two houses after that.”

“What do you think it is, then?”

“H-he’s gonna say ‘aliens’,” Norman predicted.

“A—” Dipper stopped himself. And then, with a triumphant look at his shyly grinning friend, Dipper finished, “—very good question. While we can’t rule out extraterrestrials, however, we’re currently theorizing that it’s some heretofore unidentified paranormal entity. Maybe a poltergeist manifesting, or a demon’s magic. There doesn’t seem to be anything in my journal, but if Gideon has one like I believe (and Detoby can find it), maybe we can—”

“Wait, hold up!” Mabel broke in suddenly, whirling on her brother. “Does Phillip Flimflam here know about _the journal_?!”

“Yes, he—”

“You told him about the journal already?!” she demanded incredulously. “Our biggest secret?! You _Dipstick_! We haven’t even told _Gruncle Stan_ about that yet!”

“Mabel, calm down—”

“You won’t even let me tell Candy and Grenda—my BGFFs _for_ _life_! But _you_ get to tell a guy you’ve known for like _a week_?!”

Norman slunk inward on himself, but Dipper stood firmly in front of his friend—his arms crossed in the universal “getting real tired of your crap” gesture. “How long until you get that I trust him? That he’s my _friend_?”

“How long until _you_ get that he isn’t a real psychic?”

“I n-never said I was . . .” Norman insisted quietly.

“It’s all part of _some_ scheme,” Mabel stated matter-of-factly. “Why can’t you see that?”

“A scheme in which he helps me and is invaluable to the investigation to save other, missing kids and shows me real supernatural stuff like ghost fish passing on and is even vouched for as a genuine Medium by the fricative Multibear?” Dipper countered archly.

“Well . . . He’s obviously very devious and . . . and clever.”

“Th-thank you?” Norman replied uncertainly.

“Why waste a week acting like my friend?” Dipper cross-examined her.

“Obviously it’s a long con. Remember when Gruncle Stan told us about those?”

“What is the long con even supposed to be?”

“How should I know? It’s _his_ devious and clever long con. We’ve been through this already.”

“Yes,” Dipper retorted with finality. “Yes, we have. And I’m getting real tired of going through it again, so this is your _last_ _chance_, Mabel. I _want_ to work with you again. I _want_ the Mystery Twins to solve this with the help of our new friend and be the Mystery Kids.”

Norman grimaced. “That name . . .”

“For once, I agree with Fakey,” she conceded.

“Not the point!” the behatted boy snapped. “The point is that you keep acting like this even though you _promised_ not to! I’m sick of it! I’m sick of you being a _jerk_! So stop or I’m taking you home!”

Mabel crossed her arms sullenly. “You can’t ground me. You’re not . . . n-not Mom or—”

“Don’t even start,” her brother interrupted wearily. “You _know_ you’re being a jerk.”

It was Norman who broke the silence. “S-sorry . . .”

Dipper sighed and gave him a look that said, “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Mabel, for her part, pouted, “Just can’t believe you showed him the journal, is all . . . So we gonna stand around here all day, or what? My shoulders are killing me.”

Unconsciously, both her brother and the boy Medium shifted their shoulders under the weight of their own backpacks. “It would be nice to ditch these . . .” the former admitted aloud. He looked up the road to where, not far from them at all, another road—a dirt road—branched off to the Shack. “And I _could_ grab something from home, now that I think about it . . .”

“What’s that?”

“My EMF detector,” Dipper answered in a deliberately civil voice. “I’d like to check this place. Maybe get some hard evidence one way or another that something ghost-related happened here. We’d know once and for all if it’s a poltergeist or demon or whatever.”

Norman’s brow furrowed. “Are d-demon’s made up of spiritual energy like g-ghosts?”

“How could they possess people, if not?”

“I dunno . . . Hoodoo dolls?”

“Don’t you mean ‘voodoo’?” Mabel asked irritably.

“V-Voodoo is supposed to be g-good and positive,” the Medium told her diffidently. “It’s called ‘h-hoodoo’ when it’s for e-evil.”

The goth-clad girl was about to say something scathing like “So you’re a fake witch now instead of a fake psychic?”, but bit her tongue at the last second. Dipper, for his part, asked, “Really? How do you know that?”

“It was in a m-movie I saw. About authentic zombies from Haiti.”

Dipper cocked an eyebrow at him playfully. “So the Z-word isn’t offensive when _you_ say it?”

“I’m not t-talking about the _Undead_,” Norman clarified pointedly. “I’m talking about l-_living_ people under a kind of m-magic spell with, like, puffer fish venom or something as a component. _That’s_ what a zombie _really_ is. It’s a th-thing. You can l-look it up on Wikipedia.”

Drily, Mabel put in, “The most reliable source of information in the world. So we going back to the Shack then, or what?”

“After we talk to Detoby real quick,” Dipper dictated. “I wanna hear what he’s discovered first. He hasn’t come back already, has he?”

Norman shook his head. “I could . . . um, probably ask another g-ghost to go get him?”

“Hmm . . .” Dipper considered that, then replied, “We don’t want him missing _anything_ the police find, so . . . probably don’t want to distract him now. Or have him miss out on something because he followed us back to the Shack—especially if we’re coming _right back_ anyway . . . Do you think he’d mind if we just sorta left him here for a bit?”

“I . . . think he’d mind not accompanying us to keep an eye on us,” Norman answered.

“Yeah, but it’s not like he could protect us anyway.”

“Because he doesn’t actually exist,” Mabel muttered under her breath.

Not having heard her, her brother continued, “And he wouldn’t even need to; it’s not dark yet. We’re completely safe until it gets dark.”

“D-does get dark soon, though,” the Medium answered with a shiver. “Th-that’s what _he_’d say.”

“Which is all the more reason we’re not going to waste time,” Dipper affirmed. “Just a quick run there and back. We dash in, drop our bags, grab my EMF, dash out. Done.”

“I d-dunno . . .”

“It’ll be fine,” the behatted boy assured him with a confident little punch in the arm. “C’mon. Let’s grab the nearest ghost and tell them to tell him to just keep watching and listening in there ‘til we get back. It’ll be, like, fifteen minutes tops. Also, that he should look for a red journal, like mine.”

The Medium hesitated, but not for long; he couldn’t bear to say no to those milk chocolate eyes. Somewhat guiltily, he convinced the specter of a lumberjack to pass the messages along to Detoby, then led the way in hustling up the road.

To either side, the trees of the forest stood like austere sentinels. Their trunks, rising straight and high as pillars in a ruin, made a stark contrast to the fog; they were dark and shadowy, but sharp, compared to the dull haze of gray that made a slow glissade across the road and around branches and boulders. Enveloping everything.

Anyone could be watching from behind those trees. Waiting for the moment to take y—

The Medium shook his head and whispered, “Dipper in the snow.” He already regretted not having Detoby’s determinedly jovial presence beside him. Of the twins, he asked, “It s-seem creepier than usual to you?”

They both shrugged and said, “Yeah.” After all, with weather like this (not to mention the pall cast over the whole town by five children being abducted), how could it not be?

Fortunately, as Dipper had promised, the walk back to the Mystery Shack was a short one. And entering its warm, weird stuffiness felt as safe as a hug from grandpa. Or, more accurately, from gruncle (of which they found theirs snoring at the cash register of the gift shop—apparently sleeping off his accidental overdose of over-the-counter pain meds—with an alarm clock ticking nearby). With the relief of being home, they all dropped their backpacks by the stairs; they had no intention of lugging them anywhere else that day. Then Dipper dashed up the stairs with a quick, “Be right back!”

Leaving Norman and Mabel waiting at the base. Alone.

The second he can get away from you, he does. He abandons you with her, like he doesn’t ca—

“Blue and white sashes.”

The gothic girl raised an eyebrow at the taller boy.

“S-so . . . Who do you, er, think is handling the t-tours while Gruncle Stan . . . um, naps? Soos, right?” Norman asked awkwardly.

Mabel made no answer. Instead, glowering at him, she pointed at her eyes, then straight at him. All over again.

She already sees what a fraud you are. Eventually, she’ll convince him, too, and he won’t want—

“You, um, replace that s-sparkleberry body lotion yet?”

Mabel made no sound, just the same gesture.

“M-Miz Atticals—what she told us,” Norman burst out, trying to fill the silence. “It, uh, fits with all the other d-disappearances.”

Mabel made the gesture yet again.

“Just thought . . . you’d w-want to know. We didn’t l-learn anything new from her . . .”

Mabel continued to make the gesture, though she did have to switch to her other arm; the first was succumbing to exhaustion from the weight of her bezassled sleeve.

“Although, I gotta s-say,” Norman continued, apparently speaking for his own benefit. Perhaps speaking to fill a silence he rarely actually experienced, given how used he was to gabby spectral company. “There is this . . . th-thing—I don’t know what it is yet—that keeps b-bugging me about . . . all _this_. Something I _know _I’m m-missing right in front of my face that will make _everything_ make sense . . . B-but it’s always on the tip of my tongue, y’know?”

Mabel just made the gesture again.

You’re never going to fool her, unlike her brother. You’re not going to find it, and you know it.

Norman sighed. Maybe he was only fooling himself. Maybe—

Dipper came barreling down the stairs, like he always did. With a hop, he cleared the last three steps to land with a thud between his sister and his friend. In his hand was a small device with yellow and black plastic siding and an array of five lights. He waved it around excitedly with a huge grin on his face (a grin that gave a much needed shot of morale to the Medium). “Found it! And I double-checked this time, so I know it isn’t Soos’ . . . Soos’ nail-space-on-wall-good-spot-finder thingy!”

“You mean his studfinder?” the gothic girl demanded.

“Yeah! _That_! It’s not _that_ this time!” And then, noticing how his sister was rubbing her bicep, Dipper asked, “Something wrong with your arm, sis?”

“. . . Just a cramp.”

Confused, Norman asked, “What did you mean ‘this time’?”

“Um . . . Never mind that now,” Dipper responded hastily. “All that matters is I now have my trusty EMF Detector. To the Gleeful residence! Again! But more comfortably, because we’re not lugging our backpacks now!”

Mabel grinned deviously, “What he meant was—”

“To the Gleeful residence!” Dipper repeated more forcefully. “THE GLEEFUL RESIDENCE!”

****

The afternoon was old, and soon it would be dying its slow death, when Esmerelsa woke from her nap. To say she felt refreshed is to not do her state of grace justice; neither did she feel rejuvenated nor reinvigorated—not exactly—for these are physical feelings. Rather, she felt renewed. Her mind was clear and free of doubts; her heart was light and free of cares. True, her body still felt like the body of a woman who is no longer middle-aged, but . . . for the first time in years, her spirit felt renewed . . . _alive_. Perhaps the afternoon was old. Perhaps soon it would be dying its slow death. But for now, it was alive.

Besides, the night would be young after that. What else could possibly matter?

Humming happily to herself, Esmerelsa began to step through some tango moves in her room. She had not danced with a partner in years, and not with a lover in ages. Not since . . . Panama . . . However, she had danced alone plenty of times; the movements came back to mind easily. That made her smile. It would be so much easier to dance with Stanford—truly dance, like in Bogota—that way.

When she was satisfied with her repertoire of movements, she began to prepare her regalia: makeup and hair first of all, then that gorgeous evening dress with its matching accessories (all of silver). Though the dancing and the dressing took her quite some time (even killing the rest of the afternoon), she never once stopped humming or smiling happily to herself. She simply felt too alive.

****

As the kids retraced their steps down the road, the behatted boy took periodic EMF readings. Intriguingly, the second light (the yellow one) never ceased blinking, and the third one (the orange one) would sometimes flicker on and off with it.

Mabel noticed this, too. “What’s that mean, Bro-Bro?”

“It means there’s a _noticeably_ higher amount of ambient energy in the air. The first one (green) indicates a _slightly_ higher charge around something; you usually pick it up from, like, electrical outlets or really minor paranormal activity. But a _constant_ yellow _anywhere_ I point it?” her brother rhetoricized. “This fog is _definitely_ paranormal. No doubt about it now.”

“L-like we needed to confirm that, am I right?” Norman added.

Mabel pursed her lips (whether out of contrariness against the boy with spikey hair like whoosh, or out of genuine investigative thoroughness). “You sure that thing’s working right? It’s not just skewed for some reason?”

Her brother considered that. To verify the accuracy of his EMF Detector, he tapped its screen a few times, but the readings remained the same. He turned it off, then switched it back on; still the same. He removed the batteries and shuffled their position; the readings were unchanged: baseline of yellow with flickers of orange. He looked at his sister and shrugged.

“Maybe it got banged and always reads that now?” Mabel suggested. “Like, all the time?”

Her brother considered that point as well, then diverted to the edge of the road.

Concerned, Norman asked, “W-where you going?”

For an answer, Dipper placed the machine right up against a tree and took a reading. Nothing happened; it didn’t even register green—not until he pointed it into the air beside the tree. Then he did the same to three more trees with the same result. “Looks to be working,” he surmised.

“Well … now we know for sure,” Mabel declared evenly as she resumed moving down the road. “The Commissioner which is me can’t have you running around with malfunctioning equipment. That’d botch the whole investigation, ruin the prosecution’s case, and get the District Attorney which is me and the Mayor which is me breathing down my neck about reliable procedure.”

“You’d b-breathe down _your own_ neck?” Norman ventured playfully.

“The Mayor of Sweater Town which is me runs a tight and transparent ship. Like it’s made of future glass. Every officer which is me is held to the highest standard of accountability. _Especially_ the Commissioner which is me. Maybe your standards are more lax in … the _Neighborhoodie_,” she decided with a sly smile. “But not in my town which is me.”

Norman had no response to that.

High on her own civic management and cutting wit, she then shouted over her shoulder, “Let’s pick up the pace, Bro-Bro! Daylight is burning, and most of it’s already been doused by this fog.”

Dipper lowered the EMF Detector, the latest readings of which he had been scrutinizing again, and hustled back up to them. “Sorry. Just . . . checking something.”

“What?” she inquired.

“I’ll . . . show you in a minute. Once we’re back at the Gleefuls’ place.”

****

If one were to trace the path a person follows throughout their life—like a line of neon light stretching across their hometown, state, country, and world—it would no doubt be astounding how frequently that person’s path crosses those of others . . . and just who those others sometimes can be. Some lucky schlub buys a plane ticket, and winds up sitting next to David Bowie; another lucky schlub goes to Appleby’s for steak, and Bill Murray eats one of their fries; some other lucky schlub is pressured into going to a rave by friends, is swept up in a drug bust by the police, sits in a holding cell for an hour, and then meets some other schlub over coffee and interrogation who they’ll wind up falling in love and spending the rest of their life with. It happens a lot more than one would think (Bill Murray likes fries _almost_ as much as he likes not paying for fries). Like a vast and tangled net of neon intersections.

More astounding, perhaps, would be to see how frequently two paths _almost_ cross, but do not. The neon intersections that are mere feet from happening, or prevented only by a scant few minutes or even seconds. If the schlub buys their plane ticket five minutes earlier or later, they wind up seated between a shrieking baby and a man with roughly the same physical dimensions and smell as a buffalo instead of David Bowie; if another schlub is expedited or delayed in reaching Appleby’s by just a minute, they sit in a completely different part of the restaurant and their fries go unpilfered by genius comedians (a dependably good—if unremarkable—bourgeois meal); and if the other schlub holds out one second longer from their friends’ importuning to go to the rave, they find themself in a horrendous car accident, and later walking through rehab instead of down the aisle with someone who mirandizes them … _in_ bed.

Certainly, it would highlight how much every single person’s life depends on random chance—how much everything in life is, overwhelmingly, just a matter of lucky or unlucky timing.

Had the kids been ten seconds later, they would have crossed paths with Wendy as she strode briskly towards the Mystery Shack. It was the first time she was headed that direction in nearly a week. Likely, if they had crossed paths, not much would have changed in the course of history … but one can never tell with the space-time continuum; it is just too wibbly-wobbly.

Regardless, she strode purposefully into the gift shop without removing her jacket—the chill outside was that pervasive—and, seeing Stan snoozing at her usual post, rapped her knuckles on the register counter. “Hey, boss-man! Quit sleeping on the job!”

Stan startled upright, brandishing his trademark 8-ball cane. “HANDTH OFF THE MERTHANDI—oh, Wendy. I’th you. What’re you doin’ here?”

“Nice to see you, too, boss-man. How was _your_ week? Mine’s been just great—super busy—and that’s why I’m here to see you. By the way, where are your teeth?”

“Why doth everyone keep athkin’ tha? If you musth know, they’re in a whitenin’ tholution.”

That seemed odd to Wendy, but she decided to let it slide. “Okay, I guess. Look, you’ve got a functioning computer here, right? Up in your office? We need to go use it.”

“Fine. Hey, Thooth! Wa’th the Thack!”

“What?”

“I thaid to wa’th the Thack!”

“Huh?”

“Wa’th! The! Thack!”

“Come again?”

“WA’TH! THE! Oh, forget it. Let’th go, Wendy . . .” And they both moved up to Stan’s office. Once in front of the computer (after shooing Waddles off of the chair), and with it powering up, Stan asked of his employee, “Tho what are you thowin’ me?”

“Remember that project you gave me to attract more business? That website idea of yours?” she reminded him. “Well, I finished it today, and I wanna show it to you so I can finally get paid for it. This thing isn’t going to take forever to boot up, is it? It’s freakin’ _ancient_.”

“I bought thith in two-thouthand-four,” Stan protested.

“Exactly! It’s practically a paperweight. Like, who still has a computer with a _glass_ screen? Okay, it’s on . . . and we go to the internet . . . and we wait for the internet . . . and we’re _still_ waiting . . . Maybe while we wait, we can discuss how much I earned for this,” she broached with forced casualness. “I was promised an entire weekend’s pay—”

“Yeah? You get tha’ _in writin’_?” the old man challenged her perfunctorily.

“No, but you did _promise_—”

“Tha doethn’ thound like thomethin’ _I_ would promithe.”

Looking him square in the eyes, the redhead took a very no-nonsense-all-business tone of voice. “You wanna know what I _do_ got in writing? I long list of _everything_ you wouldn’t want people to know about . . . well, _everything_. Like, I’m talkin’ _waaay_ beyond the original blackmail that first got me this job; I’ve got a list with dates and times of _everything_ I’ve witnessed.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow. “Everythin’?”

“_Everything_. Like I said, it’s _loooooong_. I’ve been adding to it for years.” Then, as if disinterested, she turned back to the computer and typed in the web address: www.the_mystery_shack.com.

Her gambit worked; he relented, “Okay. A full weekend’th pay _if_ thith webthite lookth good.”

“Not so fast, boss-man. See, this took me more than just last weekend. This took me time after school. All week. So I think I’m gonna need to get a full _three-day_-weekend’s pay.”

Incredulous, he spluttered, “_Three day’th pay_?!”

“At least. Although, I might be willing to let you talk me into accepting more,” she said coolly.

“Tha’th ridiculouth! Ludicrouth! Prepotherouth!”

“Glad to see your thesaurus is going to good use. Did I mention I’ve also kept a list of people who’d be _especially_ unhappy to learn about each individual incident I’ve witnessed? ‘Cause I have.”

The old man eyed her with fury in his eyes. But she met it with an unimpressed gaze, because she knew it was feigned. What’s more, he knew she knew; he knew she knew he was playing the game. His feigned fury evaporated and he gave her a toothless smile. “You treatherouth little minkth! You’ve been takin’ noteth on more than juth my . . . themi-legal activitieth. I’ve never been tho proud of you.”

“Proud enough to pay what I’m asking?”

“Well, le’th not go _crathy_ here. I’m not payin’ for a webthite tha’ doethn’ look good.”

“Heh. You don’t trust me, boss-man?”

“With my life, Wendy . . . but not my _wallet_. We need thith to bring in more _buthineth_.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough. Looks like the site finally loaded anyway, so see for yourself.”

In terms of web design, the site was nothing special (not that Stan could judge that for himself): a broad banner at the top read “WHAT’S THE MYSTERY SHACK?” (like one of their iconic bumperstickers) with several tabs beneath it (such as: “Who’s Mister Mystery?” and “Where’s the Mystery Shack?” and “When’s it possible to visit?” and “Why’s it life won’t be complete without a visit?”). The wallpaper was a photo of the Shack itself, with the edges fading to utter black. And that was the whole homepage.

“I know there’s not a lot to this page,” she said with a gesture to the minimalist page. “I thought leaving it like this would lend a certain . . . like, _mystique_, I guess? It’s, y’know, mysterious and shadowy and kinda spooky?”

Stan said nothing; he only nodded to himself.

Wendy then clicked the first tab, which (eventually) brought up an imposing, full-body portrait of Stan in his tour attire (fez, suit, cane, and eyepatch). He was standing beside the door to the museum, beckoning the viewer inside. The interior, however, had been blackened, and some text imposed over it which read, “Who’s Mister Mystery? No one knows for sure. Like the Mystery Shack itself, he just appeared one day. If you want the full story, you’ll have to come ask him yourself.”

“Less said, the better. I figured not telling people much would make them want to know more.”

“Bathic thuckerin’ technique . . . Not bad,” the old man grudgingly conceded. “The picthure maketh me look good, too.”

Wendy clicked on the second tab after that, which brought up the address, general location relative to the interstate, and a google maps close-up of Gravity Falls with the Shack indicated by a star. That was all there was, but that was also all there needed to be. The minimalism and the fading-to-black background of it all helped maintain the mystique Wendy had sought to create. The third tab featured a wallpaper like on the homepage (though the photo was from a different angle) and general hours of operation—with the disclaimer that other times _might_ be available (for an adjusted fee)—with an invitation to call and schedule a private visit today; the phone number was listed beneath. No mention of price (for tours or souvenirs or anything) was ever included.

“Tha’th clathy,” Stan conceded again. “And it leaveth uth flekthible to charge more . . .”

“Never commit to anything. Never look like you’d need to,” she recited.

“Ge’th them to commit themthelveth for you,” he finished.

With that, Wendy clicked on the fourth tab, which opened a slideshow of photos of the exhibits. But they were close-ups and from odd angles, creating bizarre and intriguing effects. Posing far more questions about what was pictured than they answered. Drawing the viewer to take another closer look. Above the slideshow, it read, “Learn the secrets for yourself like you can’t anywhere else in the world.” Below the slideshow, it read, “Today. At the Mystery Shack. Bring a friend. Or two. Or five.”

“Where’d all thethe picthureth come from?”

“Tambry,” Wendy replied, as though that answered everything. “So . . . pretty good, right?”

Stan reflected carefully, then said, “It _might_ work.”

“Might?” she challenged him. “This page is a hook, bait, and a net for the suckers. They’ll be jumping into the boat for you.”

“I dunno . . . I’th only worth two day’th pay; there’th not a lot of informathion.”

“Because that’s how we con them. Don’t pretend you don’t think it’s perfect. Three day’s.”

“Meh. I’th what I athked for, but _only_ what I athked for. Two day’th pay. Two-and-a-quarter becauthe I’m generouth.”

“It’s _more_ than what you asked for; it’s _more_ than what you would’ve even known to hope for. Plus, don’t give me that generous crap,” she told him sternly, but with a victorious smile tugging at her mouth. He had already wavered, so he had already lost. She repeated, “Three day’s.”

“I’th gonna cotht me to keep the webthite running. Two-and-a-half day’s.”

“That’s an investment, like, _you_ decided to make. Not my problem how much you have to pay. Plus, the web hosting is cheap anyway. Three day’s.”

The old man sucked his gums, trying hard to think of another objection. He opened his mouth.

Wendy cut him off implacably. “Thee. Day’s. Stan. Or I’ll cancel the site. You think I won’t?”

He held up his hands in (graceless) surrender. “Fine. Fine. _Beggar_ me. _Thtarve_ my grand-nephew and grand-niethe. Take your _blood_ _money_.”

“Thank you. I will. Now, please, so you don’t conveniently forget,” she coolly insisted.

And, grumbling, he wrote her a full check.

****

When the kids returned to the Gleeful Residence, Norman found the same ghost he had asked to play messenger to Detoby (the specter of a lumberjack) waiting for him. {Your friend still inside on his business, son,} the lumberjack informed him. {Asked me wait for you get back.}

Now you’ve done it. Detoby is going to be furious that y—

“Th-thanks,” Norman said guiltily. “Was he, um . . . annoyed with me?”

{Honest, don’t rightly know, son. I’m goin’ tell him you’re back, then head back to my place. This fog . . . it gives me a powerful chill, and I powerful keen get somewhere feels warm and cozy.}

“Th-thanks again!” Norman called after the ghost. When he turned to find Dipper and Mabel eying him (the former with polite anticipation, the latter with open mistrust), he explained, “The g-ghost I asked to tell Detoby we’d be right back. He was waiting for us. N-now he’s telling Detoby we’re back.”

“Oh, good!” Dipper said excitedly. “Then we can maybe get some solid clue about what happened here last night!”

“Yeah, nothing like _spectral_ _evidence_ to show us the truth,” Mabel muttered to herself, though Norman still heard her. “That’s what the Salem Witch Trials taught us.”

So you’re either a liar or an evil witch to her. She thinks you deserve to burn—

“They hanged them,” the Medium murmured absently to himself.

“_What_ _was_ _that_?” the goth-clad girl demanded sharply.

“N-nothing!” he answered hurriedly. “Just t-talking to myself . . .”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she muttered to herself again.

Suspicious, Dipper glanced from his sister to his friend; the one was planted aggressively while the other seemed to passively wilt away from her and . . . whatever had just transpired between them. He was on the verge of saying something conciliatory when his friend announced, “D-Detoby’s coming.”

Now you’re really gonna get it. And you deserve to—

Norman murmured to himself, “Dipper on a goose.”

“Hmm?”

“I s-said, um, ‘keep ‘er hanging loose’.”

“Uh . . . Okay. Was I not—”

“H-hey, Detoby!” the Medium then said with forced cheeriness and a little wave to the ghost.

The Jokergeist just shook his head in exasperation. {Bugaboo, what am I going to do with you? You kids just lindy hop without anyone to look out for—}

“We’re back now. And we were only gone for like—what?—fifteen minutes?”

{Try a _half_-_hour_. A half-hour with me not knowing if you lot got nabbed or not.}

“But Dipper said—”

{I’m sure he had his reasons, and they were probably even not unreasonable reasons, but that’s not the point,} Detoby overrode him, though not unkindly.

The point is you are a terrible person who doesn’t deserve to have friends, and now you—

The Medium shook his head. “S-sorry. We just . . . sorry.”

Leaning towards his sister, Dipper intoned, “It’s times like these I wish I could talk to ghosts, too. Or at least hear them. I _hate_ not getting the full conversation.”

Mabel folded her arms and said nothing.

{The point is,} Detoby resumed, {please don’t make me worry like that. I’d never forgive myself if you kids got yourselves hurt because I wasn’t around to look out for you. And, come to that, neither would Elaine. She would skin me _dead_!} he finished with a honk of his spectral horn.

Which, of course, is who he really cares about. If it wasn’t because he wants to be with her—

“F-funny joke . . .” The Medium even forced a chuckle. “I promise we won’t go off without you again. Even if it is just for a l-little bit, and to get something important.”

{Important? Like what?}

With a proud gesture to his friend, he replied, “Like D-Dipper’s FEM Detector.”

“That’s ‘EMF’,” the behatted boy jumped in. “It stands for ‘Electromagnetic Frequency’. I don’t even know what FEM would stand for.”

“Flexible Eyepiece Mount,” Mabel said without even looking up.

Dipper sighed. “Why would anyone want to detect _those_?”

“Frantic Eskimo Mother?” Norman suggested.

Dipper sighed again, “That’s insensitive. They prefer to be called ‘Inuit’.”

“Fritos Eaten Monday,” Mabel offered.

“A detector for that would basically be a fart counter. Can we focus back on the investigation?”

{Flapper Equality Movement?}

“So . . . feminism?” the Medium surmised.

Both twins stared at Norman. “How’d you even get to _feminism_?” Dipper asked incredulously.

“Detoby said—”

“Stop. I don’t even _care_ about how we got to feminism.”

“He said _phallocentrically_,” Mabel, grinning, interjected.

“I DID NOT—” Then, with a visible effort, Dipper stopped himself and took a deep breath. “Ignoring that. Detoby—”

“He _also_ said phallocentrically.”

“—DETOBY, could you _please_ tell me if you came across a journal like mine in there?”

{Nope. Stuck my big, honking nose in the boy’s desk and bed and armoire and closet, but I saw neither cover nor page of any journal. Likewise in the other rooms.}

“He says he didn’t, even though he d-did look,” the Medium transmitted.

“Hmm . . .” Dipper pondered that over.

“You really think l’il Mister Soci O’Path might have a journal like yours?” his sister asked.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? How else could he have so much knowledge about the paranormal secrets of this town?” Dipper posed deductively. “Besides, why would my journal have a number _three_ on it if there weren’t some earlier volumes? Anyway, if Detoby couldn’t find it, that means Gideon either had it on him when he was abducted, or he hid it somewhere so well Detoby couldn’t find it.”

“Or he didn’t _actually_ have one. Just saying, you’re assuming he did,” Mabel pointed out.

Her brother shrugged expansively, conceding, “Fair enough. But I still think he had one . . . Anyway, Detoby, what did forensics find?”

{Firstly, am I the only one who thinks it’s screwy the police hired invalids from other countries?}

The Medium blinked uncomprehendingly.

{You know . . . _foreign_ _sicks_? Especially since they all seemed perfectly healthy, and their accents were impeccably American!}

That earned an audible groan.

{And there were _seven_ of them—so they couldn’t be a foreign _six_ team, either!}

“Detoby, please?”

{Consider it your punishment for slipping off on me like an ungartered sock, Bugabock,} the Jokergeist replied unrepentantly. {But I digress; here is what I overheard and observed. On the lawn, they found footprints which are consistent with this L’il Gideon’s shoe size and stride. Per what our own Detective Dipper Pines showed us at the itsy-bitsy missy’s ritzy mansion, I think he was booking it, too.}

After that had been conveyed, Mabel asked of her brother, “Pacifica was _running_ from . . . whatever or whoever took her?”

Dipper nodded once. Very soberly. “I saw her stride; she must’ve been running _scared_.”

“Dang . . . Was it the same for the others, you think?”

“We know it was for certain with all of them. Well, except for one. But that’s more because we don’t have any witnesses or footprints or anything to go on with her.”

“Who was—actually, no. Never mind,” Mabel decided. “I don’t want to know.”

“N-no other footprints here but Gideon’s, right, Detoby?” Norman asked. “And they just stop in the m-middle of the yard?”

{Bingo to both,} Detoby affirmed. {But what’s really interesting is that they also found a _knife_ right by where the powdered puff disappeared—a _rather large _kitchen knife.}

“Whoa! Seriously?”

“What?” Dipper asked eagerly.

{With—get a plateful of this scoop—traces of _blood_ on it.}

The Medium gaped. “You’re kidding!”

“What?!” Dipper asked again. “What did he say?!”

{Not kidding you, kid. I haven’t the foggiest—no pun intended with this weather—how they tell, but it definitely had blood on it. And so did a bowl in the kitchen sink,} Detoby added.

“Really? Not just the knife?”

“_Knife_?! Gah! What is he saying?!” And then, Dipper actually grabbed his friend by the shoulders and began shaking him. “You are a terrible Medium, but an excellent murderer, BECAUSE YOU ARE KILLING ME BY NOT TELLING ME WHAT HE’S SAYING!”

In spite of himself, Norman actually began to giggle, “D-Dipper! I c-can’t tell you what he s-said if you keep sh-shaking me!”

{Hold up, because this scoop goes even _deeper_ down!} the Jokergeist inserted quickly. {Both the knife and the bowl only had one set of fingerprints on them: that kid Gideon’s—that Kideon’s!}

When Dipper finally heard all that, he released his friend and began to pace. “A bloody knife?”

“You didn’t mention one of those at the other scenes,” Mabel observed.

“There weren’t any—not that we saw or heard of.”

“M-maybe he tried to . . . y’know, defend himself?” Norman ventured.

“But then why the bowl in the sink? That’s not a defensive wound. Blood doesn’t get into bowls and bowls don’t get into sinks as a result of somebody defending themself,” Dipper reasoned aloud. “And why the blood in the first place? Where’d it even come from? We’re supposed to be investigating something that’s all . . . _non-corporeal_. A poltergeist or a demon or a . . . a _something_ without a body. Can’t have blood if you don’t have a body . . .”

Mabel grimaced. “Ew . . . Can you imagine if it did? Like, some sorta blood-blob monster?”

Dipper stopped in his tracks. “That’s it!”

“What? A blood-blob monster? I was just being facetious, but if you think—”

“No, I mean, what if it’s not the . . . the _thing’s_ blood? What if it’s _Gideon’s_?”

“Like he . . . accidentally cut himself?” Norman guessed.

“Like he cut himself _on purpose_!”

Mabel pursed her lips. “In my opinion, he likes himself too much to try and, er . . . _hurt_ himself.”

“No, you don’t get what I’m saying!” Dipper said excitedly. “It wasn’t to _hurt_ _himself_, it was so he could gather some of his _own_ blood in the bowl!”

Confused, Norman wondered, “But w-why would he want—”

“As part of some kind of spell!” Then, drawing the journal from his vest, the behatted boy whipped through its pages, saying, “There are all sorts of spells in here that need blood as like an ingredient or a component or whatever! See?” And he held the volume open to a page for transforming someone into a giant frog (or possibly toad) to illustrate his point; sure enough, the spell required blood (though it was technically frog—or possibly toad—blood) . . . and three teaspoons of fresh cardamom. “There would probably be ones in the other journals, too!”

{Magic?} the Jokergeist said skeptically. {I find _that_ hard to believe.}

“H-harder to believe than the Multibear?” Norman countered.

{. . . As the Frogs say, “two-shays”.}

“I . . . guess this spell theory sounds plausible,” Mabel allowed. “_If_ he had a journal.”

“And if he was casting a spell with his own blood, it was probably against something spiritual!” Dipper concluded. “Though there is one way to know for sure: MY FEM—I MEAN, _EMF_—DETECTOR!” With that, he held up his device and approached the house as far as the gate and the crime scene tape would allow. Even at that distance, though, the device’s fourth light (the pink one) was solidly alight. Dipper pumped his fist in triumph. “Yes! It’s _definitely_ some sorta spirit thing!”

“Not necessarily,” Mabel stated. “I mean, just for the sake of playing devil’s advocate here, couldn’t it be something else? Like . . . ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying _this_ . . . like _aliens_?”

Her brother looked wistfully into the distance. “I wish—believe me, I _wish_—but . . . What with all the other evidence we’ve gathered . . . Besides, no footprints but Gideon’s—”

{Oh, _or_ fingerprints!} Detoby added, having forgotten that detail.

“Or fingerprints!” the Medium repeated for the others.

Both twins looked over.

“The only f-fingerprints in or out of the house belonged to the three members of the family,” Detoby explained through the Medium. “And there was no sign of f-forced entry.”

“Wait. No _fingerprints_?” Mabel asked emphatically. “So . . . maybe this is more wax figures!”

Norman looked at her disbelievingly. “Wax figures?”

Shaking his head, Dipper reminded her, “Those leave footprints, remember? And there were no footprints here but Gideon’s. And, also, no footprints at the other scenes but the victims’. Wax figures might not leave _fingerprints_, but they do leave _footprints_.”

{Am I hearing them right, Bugaboo?}

“You guys are s-_serious_ about the wax figures?” Norman asked. “Is that _seriously_ something else you’ve encountered here in Gravity Falls?”

“Cursed, evil ones, yeah,” Dipper replied. “We fought some to the death once. I decapitated Larry King and outwitted Sherlock Holmes into the sunlight (where he melted, and it was kinda gross). That’s how the Shack lost its ‘S’.”

{Banana oil! They’re razzing me and you, Bugaboo. What’s next? Evil paintings?}

“I used Coolio’s head like nunchucks against Shakespeare and Lizzy Borden,” Mabel reminisced. “Good times . . . Happier, simpler times . . . No fake psychics then.”

“I . . . don’t think they’re joking,” Norman told Detoby. “I mean, a Lizzy Borden figure could _only_ be cursed and murderous.”

“Especially if you give it a real ax—don’t know what Gruncle Stan was thinking,” Dipper agreed. “But anyway, no footprints but Gideon’s. So this was _not_ wax figures.”

Mabel shrugged it off. “Okay, so that takes me back to the aliens. Don’t they have ships and tractor beams? Those wouldn’t leave footprints or fingerprints. And it would explain the lights.”

Her brother looked thoughtful, so it broke Norman’s heart to point out, “B-but . . . none of the witnesses said the l-lights came from _above_. They were d-down below—like at ground level, right?”

Dipper nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, and with a sideways sorta motion, too. Not a vertical one. You’d think the witnesses would’ve noticed a detail like that. Besides . . . I don’t think we’d get EMF readings like this _after_ an alien abduction. Maybe _during_ an abduction, but—”

“Don’t f-forget how it’s, like, reading higher everywhere,” Norman chimed in. “How the ambient energy is yellow, or whatever.”

“Yeah, can’t forget that detail,” Dipper agreed. “Extraterrestrial activity creates very localized bursts of EMF, not ones that are all widespread out. Basically, I’m not saying it wasn’t aliens, but—”

“It wasn’t aliens. Fine. Whatever,” Mabel finished bluntly. “But how do your ‘non-corporeal’ thingies explain the light?”

“Good question,” the behatted boy conceded. “Norman? You know of anything paranormal that flashes light like that?”

“Uh . . .” After a moment’s worth of running his hand through his spikey hair, the taller boy said, “Sure. You do, too. Like the fish, remember? Whenever someone . . .” He stopped and his eyes widened.

{Bugaboo?}

“Whenever someone c-_crosses_ _over_ . . .” he intoned quietly. “You don’t th-think the kids _crossed_ _over_, do you? That this thing . . .” But he didn’t finish his thought; he couldn’t articulate it.

Dipper was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “You think it might be worse than we guessed? You think we might have some sorta . . . _reaper_ or something on our hands?”

Detoby actually shuddered. {Might explain the funerary weather and gravestone cold . . .}

“But . . . I mean, one of the ghosts would’ve seen a fricative _grim reaper_ floating around town, wouldn’t they? I mean, they’d have to!” Dipper exclaimed, almost desperately.

Norman looked back towards the town, but could barely see to the end of the street because of the thick, smothering fog. “Be easy to hide in this . . . Besides, all the ghosts here have been staying close to their . . . um, their anchors. I’ve explained the anchor-thing, right? How there’s usually a point where a ghost’s c-connection to this world is strongest, and that’s where they feel most comfortable? Sorta like you feel most comfortable in your own room at home?”

“Yeah, but you also said they’re not tied to them; they can move around freely—go anywhere they want, really,” Dipper recalled. “It’s why we started thinking the fog disappearances across the country might be tied to some kinda ghosty-thing in the first place.”

“Well, everyone Detoby and I t-talked to said this fog . . . It makes them want to stay c-close to their anchors.” Norman gestured vaguely, trying to find the right words, “It makes them want to stay close to _home_. They don’t like going out in it, y’know?”

Casting a glance through the murk, Dipper nodded. “It _is_ a very creepy fog.”

Mabel shivered beside her brother. “It makes me feel . . . cold. Cold outside _and_ in . . .”

Detoby seconded that. {Me too. Haven’t felt like this since my toes pointed forward instead of upward.}

Her voice growing suddenly forlorn, Mabel declared, “It reminds of the day . . . the day of . . .” Then she sighed heavily. “It reminds me of the _funeral_, Dipper . . .”

“Oh . . .” Sadly, her brother nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Kinda makes me feel that way, too, when I let it . . .”

“Y-yeah . . .” Norman said, but more to himself than to the others.

For a moment, they all stood there in sorrowful silence. Thinking of funerals. Then, looking and sounding more like a lost little girl than she had in days, Mabel stated, “I wanna go home now, Dipper.”

Putting an arm around her shoulders, her brother relented. “Yeah, okay. Not like we’re finding anything around here anyway . . . But there has gotta be something we’re missing here—something we’re missing at _all_ of them . . .” He began to lead her back up the road towards the Shack and home, but then suddenly burst out in frustration. “Gah! I feel like it’s right in front of my face, but I just can’t see it!”

“Heh,” Norman laughed mirthlessly. “W-welcome to my world. That’s how I’ve felt _all_ _week_.”

“It sucks _so much_.”

“I know.”

“Driving me _crazy_!”

“I know.”

The Jokergeist motioned as if to pat the Medium on the shoulder, though he physically couldn’t. {Don’t be too hard on yourself. With this cold, little wonder your brain’s a little frozen. Not too fantastic to be believed—}

All of a sudden, Norman stopped in his tracks.

{—not at all. Heck, I swear I can feel the cold in my hands—}

Norman stood as straight and rigid as his own hair. His body was as motionless as a statue, but his mind was racing like a horse, a cheetah, a falcon, a bullet; synapses were firing like a warzone.

{—even though I can’t feel anything in my hands but this horn and this chicken.}

Cold . . . Fantastic . . . Hands . . . Cold. Fantastic. Hands. Coldfantastichandscoldfantastichands—

“You coming?” Dipper called back to him.

“Say that again!”

Dipper blinked. “Who, me?”

“Shushushushushush! I’m having a brainstorm! Detoby!” Norman addressed the (for Dipper and Mabel, at least) empty air frantically. “Say that again!”

{Er . . . That ag—}

“This isn’t a _joke_, Detoby!”

{Um . . . I can’t feel anything—}

“No, before that! You said . . . You said it wouldn’t be too fantastic if the cold was freezing my brain and . . . and . . . and something about hands!” Norman faltered. “Damn it! What was it?!”

Mabel took a step back. “Whoa! Language, Mister Fakey!”

{Bugaboo—}

“Detoby, what was it you said?! Quick! Before it slips away!”

{Er . . . I said my hands felt cold?}

“Not j-just your hands, right? You feel cold all over, right? Like . . . like where we f-first met outside that place with the Hiya Kitten stuff?”

{Um . . . sure . . .}

“And not just you, but all the other ghosts, too? Like that lumberjack ghost?” Without waiting for an answer, he began rattling off others, “And all the witnesses here today! And Grandmother Chiu! And Grandma—_my_ grandma! And . . . and literally _everybody_ I’ve seen all week! They’re all cold! But they _shouldn’t_ be! But they _are_! Like that one place! Like that one ‘Fantastic’ place!”

Mabel glanced at her brother. “What is your crazy friend babbling about now?”

Her brother confessed, “I’m . . . actually not sure this time.”

Norman rounded on the two of them, his blue eyes wide. “I know what it is! It’s the . . . the _thing_ in the fog—the fog that makes people feel horribly cold and lonely, _even_ _ghosts_, like that door does! _That_ is what’s taking all the kids! That thing!”

“What thing?” Dipper asked blankly.

“The thing from behind that whispering door!”

Mabel blanched. “_The whispering door_?” she repeated, afraid she knew which door he meant.

But her brother did not. “What door? What are you talking about?”

“The door on that one street with the ‘Fantastic’ shop where they have all the Hiya Kitten stuff!”

{Wait a few, bugaboo . . .} Detoby said slowly as realization dawned on him too. {You don’t mean the bogey from that vision of yours? At the school shop? _That_ thing?}

“Yes! Exactly! The thing from my vision!”

“What vision?” Dipper burst out in exasperation. “What are you babbling about?”

Norman stopped short. He looked at his new friend—currently his only friend among the living. Then, in a timid voice, he admitted, “I . . . S-sometimes I see . . . th-_things_ . . .”

“No shiatzu. I already know about the ghosts.”

“No—well, _yes_ . . . b-but I mean . . . like v-_visions_ . . .”

Dipper blinked in surprise. Then he nodded, clearly impressed. “So you can speak to ghosts _and_ have visions? Man, that’s pretty freakin’ cool. Are you like . . . a _real_ psychic?”

“I’m n-not a psychic . . .” Norman mumbled with his eyes on his feet. This all felt so awkward to him. It wasn’t supposed to go this well for him. Nothing _ever_ went this well for him. Yet here Dipper was, reacting the way Norman had least expected—thinking Norman was cool, still wanting to be his friend. Dipper seemed to be all about what Norman least expected, and he just didn’t know how to handle that.

“Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

Awkwardly, Norman confessed, “Well, I . . . I d-didn’t want _you_ to think I’m a f-freak, too . . .”

In spite of himself, Dipper laughed, “Because seeing the future is weirder than seeing ghosts?”

“I don’t see the _future_. And it _is_ w-weirder,” Norman insisted. “It’s only ever happened a couple of times, and usually it f-_freaks_ people out. It freaks _me_ out,” he added bitterly. “Last time it happened, the whole t-town got destroyed . . .”

“So . . . one of those times was recently?”

“The Monday before last, yeah,” Norman replied, a bit steadier now.

{Don’t forget that one on Sunday,} Detoby reminded him.

“And I . . . I had another one—but it was different—a few days ago. On the weekend.”

Mabel inhaled sharply. Fear gripped her insides, seemed to be squeezing her heart like a vice. _Not possible_ . . . _Can’t be_ . . .

“When exactly?” Dipper asked Norman, very much intrigued.

“It was Sunday. When I c-came over to the Shack. But later in the day. After I headed home.”

And then the fear touched at the very core of Mabel’s being—a core that suddenly burned hot in retaliation. Hot enough to set her fear ablaze. “_No_!” she burst out angrily. “I don’t believe _any_ of this! So, what?” she snapped at her brother. “Suddenly we just believe every person we meet who claims to be a psychic?!”

“I’m n-_not_ psychic,” Norman mumbled.

“_That’s_ the truth! You’re just a . . . a ghost-seeing guy (only not _really_ when we call you out)! _Fakey_! Fakey, flim-floozying guy—”

{Er, I don’t think that word means what she thinks it does.}

“—whose hair is all whoosh _and _bigger than his head! Remember _that_, Dipper?! Remember that we can’t trust the hair-whooshers?!”

“Mabel, calm down,” he protested on Norman’s behalf.

“No, I will _not_! I _shall_ not! I _shan’t_!”

Dipper gasped, clearly scandalized at her sounded-like-a-profanity.

“That’s right! I said ‘_shan’t’_! _Shan’t shan’t shan’t_!” she shouted in her brother’s face.

Dipper almost swooned.

“Not until you realize that this fakey paranormal Norman guy—this _ParaNorman_ guy!” she pointed accusingly and triumphantly (or, as she might then have said, triaccumphantsingly) at Norman, who curled defensively within himself. “Is just trying to _flim-floozy_—”

{Again, the bearcat is malapportioning that word.}

“—_bamboozy_, _shim-shamwowoozy_ me and youzy! I meant, ‘you’!” she corrected herself irately. “Me and _you_!”

On the verge of tears, Norman shook his head violently. “I’m n-_not_! I wouldn’t!”

“_Prove_ it!” Mabel challenged him triaccumphantsingly. “Let’s hear all about these fakey visions. They’re p-probably so . . . so _obviously_ fake . . . Heh. G-gotta be . . . C’mon, then! Let’s hear them!”

Beside her, Dipper groaned in disbelief, “Not _this_ again!”

“Yes, _this_ again! And again and again until he proves he’s not a liar!”

“Yeah? How’s _this_ for proof?” And her brother produced his EMF Detector, asking the Medium, “Where exactly is Detoby? Right there, to your right? Thanks. Look what the dial says, Mabel. Look at it! It’s at a solid orange, ticking to pink. There is a ghost. Standing. Right. There.”

{Technically, floating . . .}

The goth girl sputtered, “W-well, that’s not—”

Dipper cut her off, “And look what it says when I point it at Norman. Look! It’s a solid red, Mabel. Solid. Red. I have literally _never_ seen that before. You and me, we barely make it blink at green. See? Are you looking at it? But _he_ tops out the chart!”

The Medium was dumbfounded. “I . . . do?”

“So he is obviously the real deal, Mabel! My friend is NOT a liar!”

“THEN LET _HIM_ PROVE IT!” she shouted back, angry at her brother and his friend and the ghost that existed when others didn’t—that _shouldn’t_ exist when others didn’t—and the whole world that had made all this happen to her. “LET _HIM_ TELL US THESE FAKEY VISIONS!”

“FINE!” Dipper shouted back. “NORMAN . . . Sorry. Norman, _tell_ her.”

Norman sniffed and looked away, struggling to control himself. “We were b-buying school stuff. L-last Monday, I m-mean . . . At this shop on Main Street: Fantastic . . . s-something or other . . .”

Mabel fell utterly silent. Even through her makeup, it was clear that all color had drained completely from her face.

“Fantastic Scholastic,” Dipper noted automatically. “Decent selection, with a now appropriately cowed staff. And I believe it did have an entire aisle dedicated to Hiya Kitten merchandise, as you said.”

“Y-yeah. Where I met Detoby,” Norman said with a vague gesture over his shoulder. “S-so . . . across the street from it is this d-door . . . And when I . . . It made me feel c-cold to stand in front of it—and it makes _ghosts_ feel _cold_, too!” he added emphatically. “Looking at it . . . I felt like s-_something_ was on the other s-side. W-watching me, y’know? Wanting me to l-let it out . . .”

Mabel swallowed. The fear had not been burned away completely; it threatened to smother her now like a thick, black smoke.

“Then, in my v-vision, the door b-burst open and all this freezing f-fog poured out—like this fog around us now . . . Then this th-_thing_ in a suit came out. Like a human, but not—too t-_tall_, too th-_thin_ . . . without a f-_face_ . . . Or maybe it was just the fog. I don’t know . . .” Norman shook his head again. He looked paler than usual and he felt nauseous, like he might vomit at any second. “Its hands were . . . Oh, duh! _Those_ were the hands I kept d-dreaming about—the hands the fog made! I am so s-_stupid_!”

“Then what?” Dipper whispered, too spellbound to spare his friend reliving the experience.

“It . . . it chased me . . . Apparently I r-ran through Fantastic Scholastic. In real life, I m-mean. Right into the aisle w-with all the Hiya Kitten s-stuff, if you can believe it . . . S-so embarrassing . . .” Norman tried to smile, but it came off like a grimace. “It—the v-vision—ended right before it c-caught me. Reached down with those . . . those dead white hands . . .”

Scrunching her eyes shut, Mabel forced herself to ask a question. She did not want to ask it, because she was certain she already knew what the answer would be. And it would be absolutely awful, she was certain of that, too. But she asked anyway; she had to. “This _thing_ . . . Did it . . . _say_ anything?”

“S-sorta . . .” Norman replied quietly. “Something about . . . l-_loneliness_ and . . . and t-taking me away f-_forever_ . . .”

Mabel’s knees buckled suddenly, and her legs gave out. Dipper just barely managed to catch her before she collapsed. “_Mabel_?! Mabel, what’s _wrong_?!”

Breathing shallowly, she allowed Dipper to lower her to the ground. Then, after a moment, she regained enough composure to ask Norman, “Did the door . . . What address was it?”

“It was #13,” he replied at once.

Dipper bolted upright. “Wait, _what_?!” Frantically, he drew the journal from his vest and began flipping through its weathered pages. “But #13 on Main Street is just a normal storage closet! I-I’ve been by there, like, _six hundred times_ trying to investigate the Cursed Doors!”

{Cursed Doors now?} Detoby exclaimed disbelievingly. {And I suppose you can buy them at the same place as these cursed wax figures? Maybe get a cursed rug and cursed desk while you’re at it?}

“There was one when I was there,” Norman said simply, before adding to Detoby, “and we—Detoby and I—would definitely call it _cursed_. Gotta have s-some sorta serious negative energy if it can make g-_ghosts_ feel cold. So . . . is the th-thing I described also detailed in the journal? Something tall and thin with no face?”

“_Where is it_? _Where is it_?!” Dipper muttered under his breath.

Mabel looked up, meeting Norman’s blue gaze. Her brown eyes were plaintive--almost tearful. “Your vision on Sunday . . . Tell me what time it was. Please.”

“I’m n-not sure.”

“Was it before or after I . . . er, I stormed off like a drama queen?” She gave him a watery smile.

Norman returned it. “After. Maybe an hour or so? I don’t remember w-when I left the Shack—”

“It was about an hour,” Mabel declared quietly. “Tell me about it. You said it was different?”

With eyes downcast once again, Norman recounted, “I was heading home . . . Suddenly, I heard this n-noise, like . . . like . . . I don’t know—like a rattle, and a grinding noise? And then, there was this long squeak or maybe a s-screech. I guess it was like—”

“A door opening?” Mabel finished in a tiny voice.

{Coffin varnish! She _didn’t_!}

Slowly, with bulging eyes, Dipper looked up from the journal. “Mabel . . . _What did you_ _do_?”

If Norman had been paler than usual before, now he was a stark and deathly white. “You . . . you _opened_ that door?”

“What about the rest of your vision?” she asked quietly.

“Mabel, this is—”

“Please?”

“I . . . I was suddenly s-surrounded by fog, and it formed hands—hands like that thing’s, though I didn’t p-put that together until now because I’m so, _so_ _stupid_—that seized and held onto me . . . Then, I saw a really thin, really white hand r-reaching for me through it . . . but I kept r-reminding myself it wasn’t real until it all just . . . sorta melted away.”

{I talked you through it!} Detoby added proudly.

“Yeah. Detoby helped t-talk me through it,” the Medium transmitted gratefully to the others.

Dipper broke in, asking what they all wanted to know. “Mabel, _did you open that door_?”

Her lip trembled as she turned to her brother. Then she nodded, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. “It’s _all_ my fault . . . This is all _my_ fault . . .”

Pushing 3 into Norman’s hands, Dipper knelt next to his sister. “No, it’s not,” he said gently.

“But it _is_!” she insisted contritely. “I opened the door! And I . . . and I . . . I _wished_ for this . . .”

“What are you talking about?”

Covering her eyes, Mabel faltered, “The kids who’ve disappeared . . . W-who were they, again?”

“Mabel, I’ve already told you lots of times—”

“B-but I was _emotionally distraught_ . . . You can’t _really_ expect me to have been listening . . .”

With a sigh, her brother listed off, “Pacifica and her two _minions_, then Gideon. Also the former Grand Goth before the others.”

“In that order? Well, that just proves it . . .” Mabel whispered, dread upon her face. “I . . . I ran into them in town . . . after I ran off . . . And they were all so h-_horrible_ to me . . .” she declared weakly. “I just . . . just . . . I was in front of the door and the voice kept asking me what I wanted, so I wished they understood how it feels to be this alone before just disappearing! I was _so_ angry and upset! But I . . . I _never_ meant for anything to happen to them! And . . . and also . . . I also—”

With trepidation, Norman interrupted her, “Is that when you opened it?”

Sniffing, she nodded. “It kept . . . kept talking to me . . . about _loneliness_.”

With perhaps more force than he intended, Dipper asked, “Why didn’t you tell me, Mabel? About the door?”

“What was there to tell? It was just a _door_. I mean, yeah, it was all weird before I opened it . . . And it _was_ completely dark inside after I opened it, and this wave of creepy cold came emanating out, like a freezer . . . But there was _nothing_ in there. It was just a _door_,” she repeated hopelessly, “And I . . . Maybe I thought I’d just been a little cuckoo-bananas before I opened it, too . . . Maybe I thought I’d just imagined the whole thing because of . . . w-well . . . B-besides, I didn’t really think about it again until just now—didn’t have reason to—with Norman’s visions, and everything . . .”

{She shut it, right?!}

“She shut—I mean, _you_ shut it, right?” the Medium reposed the frantic question.

“It . . . I _tried_, but it wouldn’t fit back into the frame!” Mabel said shrilly. “But that’s . . . You guys don’t understand! That’s not the _worst_ part! Because . . . because I . . . I didn’t _just_ wish for it to happen to _them_!”

Silence. Dipper _and_ Norman and Detoby all stared at her.

{You don’t reckon . . .}

“W-who else?” Dipper stammered.

With an expression of utter wretchedness, Mabel looked at her brother.

“_Who_ _else_, Mabel?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Y-_you_ _guys_. ‘Cause I was . . . so upset at you that day . . .”

Silence. Dipper and Noman stared at each other.

Then Norman gulped. “We are in so much _shan’t_ . . .”

“_Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh_! Okay, _no_! Don’t panic!” Dipper smacked himself to regain his calm. “Remember that panic is the Dipper-killer. Don’t panic. Do _not_ pan—GAH! _What the heck’s that_?!” he exclaimed whirling towards the woods.

“N-_nothing_! Probably a deer!” Norman answered in a voice that would be calm and reassuring, but was actually now shriller than Mabel’s. He was clinging to Dipper.

{Nothing my left buttock!} Detoby retorted. He was trying to cling to the Medium, but his incorporeal arms kept passing through his body.

“I don’t care about your buttock, it was a _deer_!” Norman shouted back.

“I’m _so_ sorry!” Mabel sobbed as a fresh wave of tears flowed down her cheeks. “I told you this is all my fault! It’s like the freakin’ San Andreas with a fence around it that reads: PROPERTY OF _MABEL_!”

“N-no . . . _No_!” Dipper pounded his fist against the ground defiantly. That gesture seemed to achieve its purpose; it returned clarity to his thoughts and a tense calm to his demeanor (probably because it stung like nine kinds of dickens). “Ow-kay,” he said in a more level voice, “this isn’t an _optimal_ situation, but it’s still one we can manage. None of us—including me—is going to panic. Alright?”

His sister wailed, “B-but it’s _my_ _fault_ that some fog monster is probably stalking you guys!”

Taking her face in his hands, Dipper gently but firmly turned her towards him. “Look at me, Mabel. I want you to look at me, alright?” When she contritely complied, he gave her a brave smile. “This is _not_ your fault. You didn’t _know_ any of this would happen, and you didn’t _mean_ for it to happen; this is _not_ your fault. It’s just something that happened. Okay?”

“But—”

“No buts,” he asserted. “Not your fault. It’s as simple as that. Right, guys?” He looked to Norman and Detoby (by ecto-extension) for support.

{But it _is_ the Dora’s fault,} the Jokergeist muttered.

“Detoby . . . says he concurs entirely . . . er, you darb flapper, you.”

{I did _not_,} Detoby retorted indignantly. {Don’t lie to them. I think it’s entirely the Dora’s fault.}

“What does that even _mean_?” the Medium hissed back.

{Dora—short for _Dumb _Dora.}

“Um . . . j-just more incomprehensible 20s slang . . .” Norman offered in response to the twin’s quizzical looks. “But I’m with you both, too.”

Looking at Mabel reassuringly, Dipper said, “See? And, like I said, we can manage this situation. We’ve been in worse, right? We already have some advantages that the other kids didn’t.”

Hope crept back into Mabel’s voice as she asked, “Like what?”

“Well, um . . .”

“We know it’s c-coming,” Norman offered helpfully. “S-so it’s lost all element of surprise.”

“Right!” Dipper concurred eagerly. “And we have an idea what it is.”

Mabel quietly ventured, “Maybe . . . Is there more in the journal?”

Norman looked at the volume in his hands, then began flipping through the pages quickly.

“I don’t remember anything Norman described . . .” Dipper conceded thoughtfully. “But there’re the pages about the Cursed Doors, at least.”

After a moment, Norman deflated slightly. “Yeah, there’s n-_nothing_ like what I saw in here . . .”

“W-well . . .” Dipper faltered, but then caught himself, “Read the stuff about the Cursed Doors.”

“Um . . . Case #28 . . .” Norman recited nervously. “R-reports of disappearances in zones of high dark energy concentration, as well as the apparition and disapparition of doors that lead to nowhere, have lead me to open a new investigation. Are people disappearing into these doors? Do the doors lead to one place only, or to multiple places? Where? Is it possible there is in fact a single, phantom door that somehow changes its location? And, above all, why? These are the questions I must answer.”

Sniffing away some tears, Mabel offered, “Like I told you guys. The real question is: Why at all?”

Reading over his shoulder, Detoby pointed, {There’s a picture of that door on Main Street.}

“Yeah . . .”

“What?”

“S-sorry. Detoby pointed to a picture of the door on Main Street.”

Mabel gulped. “The one I opened—#13?”

“Yeah. The Author wrote in red to avoid it,” Dipper recalled aloud.

“There’s a note next to that,” Norman informed them. “It says, ‘Thirteen seems to invoke/augment dark energy. Opposite of seven, like six is opposite of three?’ But then there’s a sketch of, like, a crescent moon, I guess? It says, ‘Waning moon connection?’ . . .”

Dipper looked at his sister. “Was the moon waning when you opened the door?”

“What am I—a NASA calendar? But I do know that wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. No, the first time was when . . . when we officially moved here,” she made herself state in a calm, controlled voice. “Permanently, y’know? In Soos’ truck.”

“Oh . . . That was a _while_ ago. Like, a _month_ before school started,” the behatted boy recalled. “And today is, like, two weeks after that. It couldn’t all be while they moon was a waning crescent.”

The Jokergeist whistled. {He can divine all that off the top of his melon? Make a good reporter.}

The Medium couldn’t help but smile proudly. “M-must be why it’s a question. You think the numbers are significant? Thirteen and six?”

Dipper shrugged. “Maybe? What else does it say?”

“Hmm . . . He asks why they’re doors. Then there’s a whole paragraph theorizing why,” Norman then cleared his throat and read, “A-any door at all might be considered a portal to a smaller section of our reality, but the phantom or cursed doors seem to . . . to lead to other realities—wow!—altogether. Smaller ones, like pocket dimensions that can detach and reattach to ours. Though, it seems, only where a real door already exists. I believe this is because doors, by segmenting the fabric our reality, literally weaken it. Easier to attach a portal there . . .”

{“Pocket dimensions”?} Detoby, perplexed, repeated. {That making any sense to you, Bugaboo?}

“I th-think . . . I think it means these doors sorta open to somewhere like the Multibear’s cave,” the Medium suggested.

“Yeah . . . Yeah!” The behatted boy nodded excitedly. “His cave is like a smaller reality that’s apart from our reality! He even called it a sorta pocket between worlds, or something like that!”

Mabel just shook her head. “I have missed a lot, haven’t I?”

Tapping the upper right of the first page, Norman evinced the point, “The Author even wrote ‘offshoots of our reality, channeling energy from our reality’ in the margin!”

“We might finally be onto something here!” Dipper exclaimed. “Didn’t you say there’s a flash of light when spirits cross over? But where are they crossing over to, huh? _To_ _another_ _dimension_! That’s what a pocket dimension or reality or whatever essentially is! I can’t believe I didn’t remember this.”

“But why?” Mabel voiced aloud again. “Why make the kids or anyone else cross over?”

“Good question,” her brother concurred. “Norm, isn’t there more? Like . . . I think I remember the next page saying something about the forces of evil.”

“Y-yeah. Under the cursive caption ‘Cursed Doors’ it says that they’re guided by some sorta ‘malevolent sentience from beyond our reality’—y-yikes—and the Author’s ‘now sure’ that they’re ‘attempting to enter at its weakest points’. W-which I think means through . . . uh, doors.”

{Look at that joke. Applesauce! This fella was a worse comedian than me,} Detoby commented.

“Heh . . . Oh, there are some pictures—a sketch and two photos of some creepy looking doors,” Norman reported the others. “And a knock-knock joke.”

“Oh, yeah. Knock-knock,” Dipper remembered.

“Who’s there?” Mabel played along half-heartedly.

“The forces of _eeeevil_!” Dipper finished with nervous melodrama. “You don’t . . . You don’t think we’re up against the forces of evil here, do you? Like whoever wrote this?”

“I d-don’t know,” Norman faltered. “But they also wrote in red that dark energy readings are up _40_% _this year_—or were _that_ year, I guess . . . Um, It finishes by saying, uh, that Cursed Doors are ‘bursting with dark energy’, but they must be opened from this side for the ‘malevolent sentience’ (which it describes as ‘spectral beings that manifest via dark energy’) to interfere in our reality. Then the, er, Author crossed out ‘it is impossible to close the doors once opened’ and wrote instead ‘one must then d-defeat MS in order to close the portals and revert Cursed Doors back to regular doors’. And he . . . he says something about suspecting that _He_ is opening the Cursed Doors . . . Who’s this _He_?

Dipper shrugged. “No clue. I think he’s responsible for the Author’s disappearance, but . . .”

“O-okay. So, um . . . We ‘must d-defeat [the malevolent sentience] in order to close the portals’?” Norman repeated. He fumblingly shut the journal and looked hopefully down at Dipper.

“So, yes; we gotta defeat the forces of evil—or, at least, _one_ source of evil. We gotta defeat this fog monster . . .” the behatte boy surmised weakly.

Mabel sniffed again. Her voice cracked, “Guys, I’m so—”

“None of that,” Dipper snapped cheerily, an encouraging rictus upon his face. “We can do this. We’ve faced worse. Right, Mabel?”

Her lip was trembling.

“_Be positive_!” he snapped coaxingly. “That’s what you do best.” 

“S-sure . . . though, I can’t think of any that were _worse_ as of just this second . . .”

“And Norman’s already survived a Zombie Apocalypse and bested a vengeful poltergeist. Right?”

“The Z-word is offensive to the undead,” Norman reminded him reproachfully. “Plus, there were only _s-seven_ of them, so I don’t think that counts as an _apocalypse_ . . . P-plus, they don’t eat brains—or anything at all, really—and they wouldn’t want to _start_ an apocalypse anyway. No more than you would. They were Puritans. Plus Aggie was just a scared, angry little girl who wanted someone to talk to—”

Dipper sighed heavily. “I hope you enjoy your conversation with the ghost of that buzz you just _stab_-_murdered in the face_.”

“S-sorry . . .”

“_The point is_,” Dipper resumed emphatically, “we can handle this. We know it’s coming _and_ that we can beat it. Because the Author already beat other ones like it. That’s all we need to know . . . but, um, for tactical purposes, what else do we know?”

“Sorta what it looks like?” Mabel suggested. “Like a tall, thin guy without a face?”

“That its main strategy seems to be moving through the dark and the fog,” Norman observed.

At that, Detoby looked around with wide eyes. {Both of which are catching up to you, Bugaboo!}

“Both of which are catching up to . . .” He froze and looked around for himself. The sun was creeping towards a jagged horizon. The already thick fog seemed to be slithering tighter around them, ensnaring them and everything in sight. The world was swiftly darkening . . . while they just stood there talking. His voice became a squeak. “_Us_ . . .”

“No . . . _Nonono_!” Fresh tears welled in Mabel’s eyes.

“Mabel. Do _not_ panic,” Dipper ordered strainedly.

“But it’s probably coming _right_ _now_ for you guys!”

“_Crapcrapcrap_! What do we do?!” Norman burst out.

Taking both his sister and his friend by the hand, Dipper squeezed gently to calm them both back down. “I think I’ve got a plan, okay? But _every_ step of it is contingent upon you two _not_ panicking. Remember, panic is the _us_-killer.”

Mabel sniffed and wiped her eyes, but then she gave her brother a courageous nod. For his part, Norman was too taken aback to do anything—even to blush—but stare at the hand in his own.

“Good,” Dipper declared. “First, we need to make a stop in town. And then . . . then we get some place defendable. Are you two ready? You three, counting Detoby?”

{Sure am!}

“Y-yeah! Me and the ghost!” the Medium confirmed as the blush began to enter his cheeks.

Mabel sniffed, then forced a resolute nod.

“Okay. Let’s move with a purpose!”


	18. Chapter 18

When five o’clock came, Wendy departed with her friends. This was just business as usual at the Mystery Shack. Into the safe went the day’s (insignificant) profits. This was also business as usual. Then Stan’s superfluous eyepatch went, along with his tie, suitcoat, and pants. More business as usual. The _unusual_ business came about half an hour later, when Stan put on a nicer (cleaner) suit.

“Unusual . . .” Soos could not help but remark as he finished tidying up for the night.

Stan then removed his trademark fez and, planted before a mirror, strove to do something—anything—with his hair.

“Unusualer and unusualer . . .” Soos mused to himself.

“Stow it, Tweedledingus!” Stan barked over his shoulder. “You have plans for tonight.”

“Nothing special, Mister Pines. Just some—”

“That wasn’t a question; it was an order. As of right now, you have plans for tonight. I’m about to tell you what they are.”

“Er . . . yessir, Mister Pines?”

Turning from the mirror with a face that preemptively quashed all dissent, the old man ordered, “In a few minutes, I need to run and pick up . . . an order. In the meantime, you are to change into that stupid poofy-shirt ensemble you have. Y’know the one: with the ruffled sleeves like a pirate and the bright red cummerbund. You are then to get your accordion out of hiding—don’t bother denying you have one somewhere in the Shack!” he snapped. “I don’t care where it is, just get it out and ready by the time I get back. I’m not going to damage it. I _promise_,” he added grudgingly.

Soos stammered, “M-Mister Pines, I don’t understand—”

“You’re not supposed to understand; you’re supposed to do what I say. Understand?”

“Um . . .” Caught in the paradox, the Handyman made the only answer he could. “Nooooo . . . ?”

Stan heaved a longsuffering sigh. The kind that makes subordinates of all orders quake in fear.

“S-so . . . Change into my tangoista outfit and prime my accordion?” Soos surmised quickly.

“Exactly, Soos. Or not only will I kill you, but I’ll fire you, too. Got it?”

“Y-yessir, Mister Pines, sir!”

Stan wasn’t gone longer than thirty minutes, which left ample time for Soos to follow his orders. And to worry. Soos did a lot of worrying in those thirty-ish minutes. Upon Stan’s reentry into the Shack, he eyed Soos with a mixture of satisfaction and general disgust (which did nothing to alleviate Soos’s mounting worry, and everything to augment it).

Fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt, the he then inquired, “Is this g-good, Mister Pines?”

“Good as it’s gonna get,” Stan grunted.

“S-so . . . now what?”

Tossing him a strip of cloth, the old man tersely said, “Put on the blindfold and get into my car.”

“Blindfolds never lead to anything good . . .” Soos groaned quietly, even as he complied.

****

Mabel gaped incredulously at the squat and overly officious little building—a sheriff’s office that resembled its chief. “_This_ was your brilliant plan?!” she demanded of Dipper with some of her old zest. “To go to the _police_?!”

Speaking up in his friend’s defense, Norman contended, “The police _are_ trained professionals—”

“With _weapons_,” Dipper interrupted pointedly.

“—who probably have protocols for children being stalked and abducted by . . . a f-fog monster from beyond a Cursed Door . . .” Norman trailed off.

Mabel stared at him. So did Detoby. {I wouldn’t bet my bottom dollar on that.}

“Okay, but they _are_ trained p-professionals, at least,” Norman argued hopefully.

“With _weapons_,” Dipper repeated pointedly.

“You _obviously_ haven’t had many dealings with the police department here,” Mabel observed. “They wouldn’t know a misdemeanor from a misterdemeanor.”

“You gotta be exaggerating—”

“When the school drama department did West Side Story, they raided it for gang activity.”

Norman’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding . . .” He turned to Dipper. “Tell me she’s kidding. I mean, yeah, I know the story does have gangs in it—”

“Gangs that sing and dance,” Mabel inserted sarcastically.

“Those are the _worst_ kind,” Norman retorted. “They’re _never_ up to any good. And when they say they’re gonna put a cap in you, you never know if they mean a capella or capoeira.”

The twins and the ghost all stared dumbfounded at the Medium.

“Oh c’mon!” Norman burst out in exasperation. “A capella? When people sing the music parts? And capoeira? That dance-fighting martial art from Brazil (I think)? Man, that was _hilarious_!” he insisted before sulking, “you all would have laughed if you were _smarter_ . . .”

The twins exchanged glances. “We know what a capella and capoeira are,” Dipper said.

“I’ve just never heard the expression ‘put a cap in someone’ before,” Mabel finished.

Continuing to sulk, Norman grumbled, “Means to shoot someone in gang vernacular.”

{Then why didn’t you just say ‘to bump off’ or ‘to chopper’ like a normal person?}

“_Because I was making a joke_! I would’ve at least expected _you_ to get that.”

{Why? I don’t know anything about music or Brazil.}

“I mean I would’ve at least expected you to get that I was making a joke.”

The Jokergeist patted his shoulder consolingly (or mimed it). {Don’t quit your day job, Bugabob.}

“Wasn’t any worse than _yours_,” the Medium muttered.

{Yeah, but I’m retired from my day job. In a permanent way, you might say.}

“Whatever . . . Anyway, is she serious about that raid?” Norman asked his friend.

With a sigh, Dipper admitted, “Unfortunately . . .”

“So . . . _this_ is your brilliant plan?”

“Exactly!” Mabel chorused.

Dipper shrugged sheepishly. “I never said it was _brilliant_ . . . Just that panicking would ruin it.” That didn’t just merit a face-palm; it merited a double face-palm. And since both his friend and his sister did it, Dipper received the rare (but hardly coveted) quadruple face-palm. But, holding the door to the police station open for them, he explained, “There’s more to my plan than this. This is just . . . backup.”

Just inside was a sort of reception area for all non-law enforcement personnel, with a table (presumably for civilians to fill out the requisite red tape which the law required to do almost anything), chairs, and more stacks of outdated magazines than one would expect in the building which also housed the county fire inspector (some of the more predominant periodicals included: “The Man Who Serves”, “Handcuffs and Batons Monthly”, “Bronzed Boys in Blue”, “Fuzzy Bears and Pigs”, “Power Top Cop”, and “Homoerotic Double-Entendre, the Magazine”). At the far end, screened by a desk for an on-duty officer (who also doubled as the town’s emergency dispatch), was a corridor to the offices, equipment room, and holding cells.

At the moment, the Desk Officer looked like they had had more coffee than sleep since Sunday. The sight of three kids walking through the door did not appear to elate to them. “Yes? Can I help you?”

The behatted boy puffed himself up to his full, unimpressive height and announced, “We’re here to see Sheriff Blubbs.”

Too tired to properly patronize kids, the Desk Officer simply jawed, “He expecting you?”

“No, but he will see us anyway,” Dipper affirmed importantly. “For we have information relating to the recent string of disappearances. Specifically, we know the whereabouts of the kidnapper!”

An eyebrow was raised at the dramatic declaration. “Uh huh . . . Where’s that?”

“The creature is coming from behind #13 on Main Street.”

“Creature? Wait a minute . . .” The Desk Officer leaned forward to peer blearily at Dipper, then glanced back at a wall with labeled photographs under a placard that read “Known Troublemakers”; Dipper was among them (along with Mabel and Stan, Old Man McGucket, and most of Wendy’s crew). “_You_’re the crackpot conspiracy kid!”

Affronted, Dipper said, “I wouldn’t say ‘crackpot’—”

“I would,” his sister chimed in.

“You were there for at least three-fourths of my investigations, Mabel; you know they’re real!”

“Yeah, but you’re still kinda crackpotty about them.”

Norman couldn’t help but snicker, “Heh! ‘Crackpotty’!”

“The point is,” Dipper insistently resumed, “that we know what’s causing the disappearances. Sheriff Blubbs is going to want to hear what we have to say.”

“Yeah? That you’ve seen some sorta monster taking kids into #13? Look, kid, there is no #13; it’s not a separate property. It’s just a freakin’s joke someone made when they hung a sign over closet.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes, but now a malevolent sentience has attached its dimension to #13 and is using it as an ingress into our reality.”

The Desk Officer began to rub their temples. “Kid, do you even hear yourself right now?”

Frustrated, Dipper replied, “Fine, don’t believe us. We’ll just show him ourselves.”

“No, you won’t, ‘cause I’m absolutely _not_ letting you anywhere near him or any other officer!” the Desk Officer snapped. “Don’t you get it? We’re all busy conducting a search and rescue operation—have been since _Monday_—and we have neither the time nor the patience to deal with a bunch of crackpot kids distracting us!”

But Dipper stood his ground before such an onslaught. “We’ll see about that when I talk to him. Where is he? Out in town? In the woods?”

“He’s conducting a conference with all the search parties to establish what ground has already been covered, and how thoroughly. Like I told you, kid, he’s busy. Go home.”

“We can wait for him to finish.”

“No, you can’t. Because you’re going home.”

“You can’t make us go home,” Mabel contended. “We’re not breaking any laws by being here. This is a public place.”

“You’re obstructing a police investigation!”

“T-technically, we’re not,” Norman spoke up. “We’re just t-talking to a guy at a welcome desk.”

{Not a very welcoming one, though,} the Jokergeist snipped with a honk of his horn.

Mabel leapt on that point. “Yeah! A guy whose job is to talk to people—even crackpots like my brother here!”

“Yea—hey!”

Slamming their hands down on the counter, the Desk Officer relented. “Fine! Go sit and wait for all I care! But I’m warning you now, you’re wasting your time. And mine.”

{Ah, but we have the right to waste our time however we like, because it’s _our_ time!}

And, with a chuckle, the Medium repeated that line out loud for everyone else to hear. He even added, “This is _America_!”

The Desk Officer’s only response was to point towards the table and chairs. They may have also muttered “Damn goth kids . . .” under their breath before busying themselves with office work.

Once they were seated and mostly shielded from view behind some of the stacks of magazines, however, Dipper pulled his friend and his sister into a huddle. “Okay, we _cannot_ wait for them to finish; we need to talk with Blubbs now. Lives hang in the balance—our lives, specifically.”

Mabel felt a lump form in her throat. “S-sorr—”

“No apologies. Not your fault,” her brother insisted again.

It was hard for Norman to think clearly with Dipper’s face so close to his—with Dipper’s arm around his shoulders—but he did recognize an immediate problem. “But h-how’re we gonna get p-past? N-no way this officer will let one of us just w-walk by.”

“Simple. We’re not _all_ gonna slip past him. Just _me_.”

“Uh . . . You sure we should separate?” Mabel whispered to her brother. “I mean, in the movies, isn’t that always when the monster gets someone?”

“Mabel, please. This is a police station.”

“But people vanish all the time in police stations in movies.”

“_Only_ in suspense-action-thrillers about crooked cops,” Dipper replied, as if this were obvious. “And we’re _clearly_ in the middle of something of the supernatural-thriller/horror genre here.”

“Okay, I’ll admit that’s a fair point.”

{Are they jawing away about _talkies_?} Detoby asked incredulously. {Don’t they realize this isn’t some two-bit vaudeville routine?! This is real life and death!}

The boy Medium’s response was a look that expressed, “Tell me about it . . .” Then, to the twins, he rephrased his earlier question, “But . . . _how_?”

The behatted boy considered that for a moment. Then, he dehatted himself and looked at his own cap. “You guys think you can keep talking for a while? Like I’m still here with you?”

“Uh . . .” Mabel exchanged an awkward glance with Norman. “Sure?”

“Okay then. I’m just going to slip off my shoes so I won’t make any noise when I walk . . . Now, I’m going to shift these magazines onto my chair . . . and put my hat on it so it looks like I’m still here . . . And, finally, I’m going to slip over to the counter—under their field of vision—wait for the right moment, then slip by them down the hall . . .” And, much to the surprise of his sister and his friend, Dipper succeeded in doing exactly what he said would.

Detoby whistled, clearly impressed.

“Um . . . C-could you do me a favor and stick with him? Just, y’know, _in case_?” the Medium begged of his spectral friend.

Detoby saluted. Then with a {Twenty-three skidoo!} he shuffled through the wall after Dipper.

Alone in the alcove now, Norman and Mabel sat in a silence that was near complete. Yes, they had agreed to talk together to sell the ruse, but … easier _not_ said than done. Only three sounds broke it: the keyboard tapping and pen scritch-scratching of the Desk Officer, and the tick of a wall clock. It had no tock to it, just a dry tick as solitary and regular and grating as the Desk Officer.

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

Mabel cleared her throat softly, then inquired, “That was . . . Detoby you were talking to?”

“Y-yes.”

“You were asking him to keep an eye on Dipper?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And he is?”

“Y-yep.”

“Oh, good.”

Near silence again. Tap-tap . . . tappatappatappa-tap . . . Scritchascritch . . . Tap-tap-tap tap . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

Norman began to quietly drum two fingers against his knee. Beside him, Mabel swung her legs in time with the wall clock; her legs didn’t quite reach the ground from her chair, though Norman’s did. Even slouched, he was obviously taller than Mabel (and Dipper)—and most other kids their age.

“Can he—Detoby, I mean . . . Can he do anything if Dipper’s in . . . y’know?”

“Um . . . Well, he c-could let us know something’s w-wrong . . .”

“Oh . . . Could . . . Could _we_ do anything?”

“Not sure. We’d . . . p-probably _try_.”

Near silence again. Scritch-scratchascratcha . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tap-tap tap . . .

Ceasing to swing her legs, Mabel folded her arms instead. She then examined the other chairs in minute detail. An itch on his chest made Norman stop drumming his fingers long enough to swipe at it; then he began drumming again.

“Well . . . This is really awkward,” she observed uncomfortably.

“Kinda. Yeah.”

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

“Norman . . . I . . . uh . . . I need to apologize to you,” Mabel finally managed to articulate.

Looking up in surprise, he asked, “What for?”

“For the really mean way I’ve treated you. I’ve sorta acted like a butt you. A spiteful shrew butt,” she elaborated in eloquent contrition.

“Th-that’s alright,” he replied quickly.

But shaking her head, Mabel continued, “No, it’s not . . . I called you a fake and a liar, all because I didn’t want to believe what you were saying . . . I was even a shrew butt to Dipper, too, because he was all defending you . . . And I’m sorry for that,” she said remorsefully. “I’m sorry for all of it. It was just . . . Mom and Dad . . . When you said that they weren’t there . . . I felt s-_so_ alone and . . . and _abandoned_ . . . Do you have any idea how that feels? Thinking the p-people that you th-_thought_ cared _most_ about you have just abandoned you?” she asked brokenly. “I felt so . . . so _betrayed_ . . . and so _alone_ . . .”

After a moment, Norman answered in a soft, raw voice, “Yeah . . . I know what that feels like.”

“You . . . do?”

He just nodded, his gaze fixed sadly on the floor.

Wiping her eyes, she empathetically laid a hand on his. “You wanna talk about it?”

Unsure how to respond—unsure even how to describe all he felt—Norman just shrugged.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want,” Mabel assured him quickly. “I just . . . Now that I’m not actively striving to be a shrew butt to you . . . I guess it’s obvious I’m not the _only one_ who’s hurting . . . So, if you _wanna_ talk about it—and when you’re _ready_ to talk . . . assuming you don’t prefer that stupid ‘unfeeling tough guy’ façade thing boys usually do (and like my dippy Dipstick brother _always_ does) . . .” she rambled. “Oh! Not that I’m saying _you’re_ stupid if it’s too early! I’m . . . not apologizing very well . . .” she bemoaned herself, hanging her head.

“You don’t—”

“What I’m trying to say is,” Mabel declared. “When you’re _ready_ to talk, I’ll listen . . . I owe you: one sympathetic ear. Kinda the least I can do, after being such a spiteful shrew butt.”

In spite of himself, Norman laughed a little. “Heh. Thanks. I might take you up on that later . . .”

“So . . . you forgive me?” she asked diffidently.

“Of course I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean it,” Norman assured her gently. “I know that you were distraught . . . You were hurting, so you said things you didn’t mean, because that distracted you from the hurt for a little while . . . That’s what people do. I understand that, and I don’t blame you.”

With a small smile, Mabel said, “Dipper’s right; you _are_ a pretty cool guy.”

Norman’s heart skipped a beat. “Dipper said that?”

“Yeah. Won’t _shut_ _up_ about it. Next time I knit, I might make you guys some BFF sweaters.”

Fighting the red flush of happiness, he stammered out the reply, “S-says the same about you; Dipper talks about you all the time . . . He really worries about you, y’know?”

Mabel lapsed into a somber silence, and they both sat there for a time. But she soon ventured, “Can I ask you something, Norman? Why . . . why do you think they weren’t there with me and Dipper?”

“Your parents?” he surmised softly. “I . . . I don’t know why . . . Not everyone becomes a ghost; usually just those who refuse to accept their mortality, or those who have some major duty to fulfill—the ‘unfinished business’ people talk about. That’s what my Grandma says, anyway. She should know.”

“I . . . I don’t understand . . .” Mabel intoned sorrowfully.

“Well, she’s a ghost, too.”

“No, I get _that_.”

“Oh. Well, maybe they die suddenly or uncleanly or are afraid to move one,” Norman explained. “Maybe there’s some important responsibility they had in life they needed to pass on, or felt the need to watch over until someone fulfills it or accepts it as their own . . . My uncle was like that, actually . . . Sometimes there’s an extremely powerful emotion that binds a person to this world, but that . . . well, that can end badly if the emotion becomes negative. That’s how ghosts become poltergeists—and it’s like a hundred times stronger if that person had any special abilities in life . . . I knew a girl named Aggie, actually, who’s resentment became strong enough to strike a whole town . . .”

“But that’s just it! Weren’t _Dipper and me_ an ‘important responsibility’ for Mom and Dad?!” Bereaved, she gesticulated to express her turmoil at the universe in general. “Wasn’t their love for us . . . Wasn’t _that_ an extremely powerful emotion?!” She sobbed again—a painful, wrenching, bitter sob. “How could they leave us like that? How could they leave _me_?”

For a moment, Norman hesitated. Then he put his arm consolingly around her, and she instantly seized him to bury her face in his sweater. But despite the rib-crushing force of her hold, he whispered, “I don’t know for sure, b-but . . . I have a guess. W-would you like to hear it?”

“Mm-hmm . . .” she managed to reply.

“I th-think, in the end, they decided to m-move on because they knew you’d be in good hands: your Great Uncle’s and, especially, Dipper’s,” Norman asserted emphatically, his heart in every syllable. “Your parents _knew_ that those two _will_ look out for you.”

Wiping her eyes, Mabel gazed up hopefully into his. “You really think so?” she murmured.

“Yeah. And m-me, too—I’ll look out for you, too, if you w-want. That’s what f-friends do, right?”

She hugged him tightly then. “Yeah! That’s exactly what friends do . . . So from now on, then, you’ll look out for me and Dipper, and I’ll look out for you and Dipper, and he’ll look out for both of us!”

“Heh! Sure! The three of us against the world!”

“We attack at dawn! Shock and awe!” she laughed, grinning as she dried her tears.

“Think that’ll work against the fog monster?”

“If it doesn’t, I’ve got stealthy ways—for I am Ninja Mabel of the Secret Techniques!”

“Okay!” Norman cheered enthusiastically. Then he stopped. “Wait, what?”

“By the way, we gotta come up with a better name for _it_,” Mabel declared matter-of-factly. “Because ‘fog monster’ just does _not_ sound ominous enough for something that abducts children.”

“What about the ‘Fog Man’?”

“. . . Meh.”

“Um . . .” Norman considered that for a second. “In the paper, it said that one of the kids screamed something about a ‘tall man’ before vanishing . . . Maybe we should call it the ‘Tall Man’?”

“Hmm . . . Not bad, but not _quite_ right . . .”

“The ‘Shadow Man’?” Norman suggested.

Mabel shook her head. “Too Walt Disney.”

“The ‘Pale Man’?”

“Too Guillermo del Toro.”

“Who?”

“What? You’ve never seen any of his movies?” Mabel asked in surprise. “But they’re fantastic! Dipper said you’re crazy for horror-ish movies. Never mind; after we beat this thing, I’ll show you some. They’re beautiful in a creepy, dark fantasy sorta way.”

“Cool . . . Maybe the ‘Suit Man’?”

“Too Jos A. Bank.”

Slightly exasperated, Norman jokingly suggested, “How about the ‘Slender Man’?”

“Hmm . . . Gotta nice, creepy theremin ring to it . . .” Mabel judged approvingly.

“You’re kidding. _That’s_ the one you think is creepiest?” he asked sarcastically. “It sounds like something you’d name an exercise video.”

“A _haunted_ exercise video,” Mabel countered. “Like if that zombie—sorry, _undead_—girl from The Ring made you do some cardio.”

Before Norman could reply, the doors behind the Desk Officer burst open. Dipper stormed through them, followed by a guffawing Sheriff Blubs and a crowing Deputy Durland. “City boy! City boy!” Detoby floated after, though only Norman saw him.

“B-but how _is_? You were there, but now here?” the Desk Officer jabbered in incredulity.

“You stink at your job; _that_’s how,” Dipper muttered under his breath. “You _all_ do.”

“Now, don’t pout, short stuff,” Sheriff Blubs remonstrated him good-naturedly. “Just because the adults are too busy bein’ real investigators to listen to your city urban legends about fog men—adorable as that may be.”

Stamping his foot, Dipper shouted, “_I am NOT adorable_!”

“D’awwwww! What a cute little tantrum! And I’ll tell you, your story was just the pick-me-up everyone in that conference room needed. We haven’t had much to laugh about this week, so your lightenin’ the mood like that was heaven sent! I think we can all get better work done now.”

Dipper seethed, but he did so in silence as he reclaimed his hat and retied his shoes and (with the others trailing) exited the station. Then, tramping through the cold fog, he sulked, “_Adorable_ . . . Show them . . . Waste of time . . . Shoulda known better . . . _Not_ adorable . . . Freakin’ cold out h’a-_tsoo_.”

As automatic as a reflex, Norman, Detoby, and Mabel crooned, “Aw! You sneeze like—” And then they all stopped and turned, bright-eyed, to face one another. “You’ve noticed it, too?”

Dipper spun in a rage. “If _either_ of you finishes that sentence, I will never speak to you again! Probably because I will have killed you!”

Above them, a laugh died suddenly on Detoby’s lips. {Oh my gigglewater . . .}

“Okay, Dipping Sauce,” Mabel replied placatingly. “We won’t talk about how adorable you are.”

“I am _not_ adorable,” her brother grumbled. “No one ever takes me seriously—not even my own family and friends . . .”

{Time to cut the chin music and ankle,} the ghost informed Norman uneasily.

But Norman wasn’t listening; he was also busy trying to placate his friend, saying, “Sure we do. Of course we take you seriously.”

“You do _not_. No one does.” Dipper sighed. “It’s hard being me, and _nobody_ understands . . .”

{_Norman_!}

“What? You don’t have to shout.”

“I _didn’t_ shout,” Dipper protested sulkingly.

“Not you. _Him_,” Norman said with a gesture to the empty air (from Dipper and Mabel’s perspective) beside himself.

Detoby pointed a spectral hand west, where the last rays of the sun faded behind the horizon.

The color drained from Norman’s face. “Oh, _fricative_ . . .”

****

Savory aromas filled Stan’s car: fried bananas, roasted and spicy pork, baked rice with coconut. Yet Soos, though his nonvisual senses were so heightened as to practically be able to taste each of them, could not enjoy them; he hunched in the passenger seat, clutching his accordion, and listened fearfully to the instructions of his employer and mentor (and currently tormentor).

“Here’s how this is all going to work. You’re going to stay in the car with the blindfold on until I tell you otherwise. Are we clear so far?”

“Y-yessir, Mister Pines.”

“When I say so, you’re going to get out of the car and play tango music until I tell you to stop. Might be a few minutes. Might be a few hours. We still clear?”

“Y-yessir, Mister Pines.”

“The blindfold stays on while you do. Got it? If you take it off, or if you stop playing before I say, or if you try to listen in on my private conversation—basically, if you do _anything_ other than stand there and play tango music until I tell you otherwise—I will not only fire you, but I will shove that squeezebox up your left nostril.”

“No!” Soos reflexively clapped his hands over the left side of his nose. “Not the _left_ one!”

“Yes, the _left_ one—the _particularly sensitive_ one!” Stan thundered. “Are we still clear?!”

“As c-crystal, Mister Pines,” Soos whimpered.

“Good,” Stan grunted. A few minutes of tense silence later, he pronounced, “We’re here.”

“I stay put?”

“You stay put.”

Soos sat and waited for the next few minutes as Stan came and went. The sources of the aromas were carried off first, leaving only a gradually dissipating hint of savoriness—like warm ghosts in the air. Soos couldn’t be sure what Stan took next, but he thought he could hear the sounds of a table being set. Then, after something else was removed from the car, it sounded like several matches were unsuccessfully struck (the giveaway was Stan cursing about “consarned mollycoddling unlightable matches”). Finally, one was lit, and several faint clacks followed—like little doors being closed. Strangest of all, it sounded like Stan was humming nervously to himself.

What Soos could not see was a weather-stained gazebo about thirty feet away, now bedecked with small lanterns. An outdoor picnic table at its center was inexpertly set for two, with takeout boxes of traditional Colombian cuisine spread upon it. And one box of Go Nuts Donuts’ best blintzes del diablo. Stan was humming nervously to himself, because he was nervous in a way he had not been in years.

When the old man had finished fidgeting with the table and the lanterns, and was beginning to feel silly just standing there and tapping his foot, he took a few experimental dance steps. He grimaced, then drew the bottle of painkillers (which he had liberated from his great-nephew’s backpack) from his jacket pocket. A moment’s hesitation later, he shrugged and downed another dose. “After all, I didn’t get where I am today by _not_ abusing substances …”

Soon, a second car pulled up beside the gazebo. Esmerelsa, in her long silvery dress and wrap, stepped out. She gasped in wonder. “Oh, mi eStanford, it’s beautiful! You do all this for me?”

Laying a finger over his lips, Stan signaled for silence. Then, gruffly, he pulled Soos from the car and ordered, “Start playing. And don’t stop or listen, or it’s the _left nostril_.”

Gulping, Soos nodded silently. And then, with a priming “FweeeeEEEEEEE!” from his instrument, he launched into the most desperate accordion solo of all time. Given its history with the drunken, starving, disease-ridden street performers of Paris, that is saying quite a lot.

Offering her his arm, Stan led Esmerelsa up to the gazebo. “Yes,” he answered once there. “This—all this—for you. I figure, maybe, we can give us another . . . Um . . .” He faltered, unsure what he really wanted to say. In the end, he decided to go with the old standby of complimenting his date’s appearance. “You look absolutely amazing. Like . . . wow! Like some sorta modern goddess.”

She laughed gaily. “Gracias! You are quite—how do you esay?—handsome as well. Your teeth are so white, and your breath . . . it esmells eso clean!”

“New toothpaste. With extra whitening power,” he joked. “You, uh, wanna eat something?”

Sidling beside him, she whispered, “No, mi eStanford. I want to tango with you first.”

“Oh? The food might get cold.”

“eSo? It’s properly esealed in its containers, si? No chance of los germens getting in?”

“I . . . don’t think we have to worry about Germans, no . . .” he answered uncertainly.

“No, not _Germans_, mi eStanford! Los_ germens_! Los _microbios_? The esmall little animals that make you esick?” she prompted him.

“Oh, _germs_!” he realized with a laugh. “Yeah, you don’t have to worry about those. Air-sealed and everything. Just for you.”

“You’re eso _romantic_, mi eStanford,” she purred. “Let the food get cold. eShow me you estill know how to dance. Just . . . ah, first let me fix the table . . .” she added as she compulsively began to straighten the dishes.

“Something wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“No, claro que no!” Esmerelsa reassured him hurriedly. In seconds, all the dishes were parallel and spaced exactly two centimeters apart.

“You, uh, seem to be really . . . practiced at that,” Stan observed. Then he watched as she reset the small lanterns he had lit at precisely equal intervals on the gazebo’s balustrade. And then rearranged the containers of food by size. And then quickly wiped off the chairs.

“There! I’s much better, no? _Now_ we can _dance_,” she declared silkily.

“I’m gonna be a bit rusty,” he warned her shyly. “I haven’t tangoed since . . . since Panama. Haven’t had the heart for much dancing since then—except around the law, I guess.”

“I’s no problema. I’s like riding a llama; you never forget,” she assured him.

“I . . . don’t think I’ve ever ridden a llama . . .”

“No, me neither. I’s a frase estupida because i’s a dirty animal—I wouldn’t wanna touch one . . .” Esmerelsa conceded. “But you esee my point?”

“I guess . . .” Stan said uneasily.

“If you are estill uncertain,” she whispered seductively, slipping her arms around his big frame, “I guess I have to lead. I’s always better when a woman leads, don’t you think?”

Placing his arms around her, Stan grinned. “I’d be a fool to say no, and Momma Pines didn’t raise no fool.”

And so they began (clumsily at first, but with increasing confidence and precision) to tango.

****

Sepia islands in a shifting umbral sea—that was what the world now was; streetlamps and fog. Time was no longer measured in minutes or seconds, but in the short eternities between streetlamps. They were pale and cold islands, little better than the fog itself, but they offered some brief shelter to Dipper, Mabel, and Norman—even to Detoby. None of them refused it; they were all too afraid of drowning in this dark sea if the crossing from one streetlamp to the next took too long an eternity.

However, the eternities spent huddling under the ashen-orange beam of some fading lightbulb were almost as tense as those between them. The kids were more visible then. And they knew that. They didn’t stay still for long—just long enough to look ahead. And then they would run to the next.

It was hardest on Mabel, who was soon struggling to keep the pace. As she heaved wretchedly against one of the lampposts during a pause, Dipper panted worriedly to her, “You alright?”

“Doing nothing . . . but grieving for a _month_ . . . _really_ gets you out of shape . . .”

“Are you good to keep going?”

“Do I have . . . much of a _choice_?” she panted back sardonically.

“P-probably not,” Norman gasped. “Sorry.”

“Bleeping bleep . . .” she cussed to herself. “Okay, then . . . Here we go _again_ . . .”

They dashed to the next streetlamp, and then to the next. The sounds of their running feet were strangely muted by the fog. No echoes followed them; just deadened footfalls as they darted through the light and the dark. They passed another streetlamp. And then another, and another after that—moving like flickers through the light and like shadows through the dark.

But then Mabel needed to catch her breath again.

{Is _this_ the brilliant plan?!} the Jokergeist exclaimed with a shake of his head. {Hit on all sixes _all night_? When her gams can barely piston?} And, despite the moment’s tension, he honked the horn.

“I didn’t understand _any_ of that . . .” the Medium huffed impatiently.

Detoby threw up his hands in high frustration; he had thought that one was particularly clever. {Does Dipper plan for the three of you to run for it _all night_?}

“The plan isn’t just . . . to run all night, is it?”

“Yeah . . . We hoping . . . the Slender Man . . . won’t catch us if we don’t stop?” Mabel heaved.

“The ‘Slender Man’?” Dipper repeated questioningly.

“We decided . . . that’s its name . . . Official and everything . . .”

“_You_ decided,” Norman muttered.

“My plan is to run back to the Shack . . .” Dipper explained breathlessly. “Then we’re gonna turn on _all_ the lights . . . _All of them_ . . . And we’re gonna set up one of those industrial fans right outside each and every door . . .”

Mabel blinked. “Industrial fans?”

“Y’know, in the shed? Those four _huge_ fans Gruncle Stan has . . . for some reason?”

“Why does he have four of them?” Norman wondered.

“_I_ _don’t_ _know_!” Dipper burst out. “Why’s he have a taxidermied Sasquatch in its _underwear_?! Why’s he have _brains_ in _jars_?! Why’s he have the mummified remains of the Egyptian _God_ _of_ _Evil_?! Why’s he have his _barber_ on speed dial, _before_ the police or the fire department?! _He just does, okay_?!”

“And what good . . . are some lights and fans gonna do us?” Mabel asked.

“If this ‘Slender Man’ moves through the dark and the fog, I say we take those away from him!” Dipper said ardently. “Make it so he can’t get anywhere near us!”

“Yeah!” Norman cheered.

{Yeah!} Detoby chorused.

“Yeah!” Mabel joined in.

“Yeah!” Dipper shouted with them.

The streetlamp above them sputtered suddenly, and then went out . . .

“_Noooo_ . . .” Dipper said in a strangled little voice.

The streetlamps ahead of them and behind them sputtered, too . . .

Mabel whimpered. She crept closer to the others, who crept closer to her.

Then all the streetlamps started to go out . . . One by one . . .

{_Applesauce_!} Detoby squeaked.

The last streetlamp went out . . .

The shifting umbral sea had swallowed the sepia islands. Now all the world was fog and dark.

****

Lanterns blurred into a luminous ring around their bodies, and Stan laughed. If his thoughts could have been captured in words, he might have said, “The whole world is spinning round! Or maybe it’s just my head! Or maybe it’s both our bodies! But who cares, so long as it never stops?”

But both he and Esmerelsa could only sustain so much of their tangled, tangoed carousel before dizziness had them stumbling into each other. In that moment, Esmerelsa released her lead, and they both reeled about until they could find a seat somewhere. They were panting and laughing hysterically, like kids.

“I don’t . . . remember quite that much spinning in Bogota!”

“No, but . . . it is—how . . . do you esay?—fun!”

“Ha! No kidding . . . hoooo . . . Shall we again, but with _less_ spinning this time?”

She pursed her lips in mock seriousness, as if considering the request. “Tal vez si, y tal vez no . . . If _I_ am _leading_, mi eStanford, _you_ will _follow_ . . . Even if it means espinning.”

“Heh. I think I can roll with that. Or spin, as the case may be.”

The joined hands again in the tango position, waited a moment for a downbeat from Soos’ continuous (but only slightly frantic) accordion playing, then set off again. She still led, but did _not_ recommence spinning out of sheer giddiness to be finally dancing with him once more; instead, rudimentary steps were followed until they reacquainted themselves with the rhythm. Then they increased the complexity of their steps—but always repeating and repeating and repeating them in time with the music until they were comfortable with them once more. And then, they abandoned themselves to the music; they danced freely, as the music or their hearts or both led them . . . without any thought to where or when or why they were—only who they now were.

An impassioned whisper, “Dip me!”

An impassioned answer, “How do you esay . . . okie dokie . . .”

And Stan lounged back into Esmerelsa’s arms, his whole being broadcasting, “TAKE ME NOW!” as clear as day. The moment was super romantic.

Unfortunately, reality (being the biggest of biggest of jerks) decided just then was the ideal time to reassert that Stan was more of a large man and Esmerelsa was more of a petite woman and neither was as young as they once were (even back when they already hadn’t been as young as they once were). With a distressed cry (“Mi espalda!”), she dropped him and clutched at her lower back. He fell flat with his own distressed cry (“My back!”), then rolled to clutch at his own back.

The accordion music faltered, but did not come to a full stop. Soos (clearly worried) called out, “M-Mister Pines? Everything ok—”

“WHAT DID I SAY, SOOS?!”

“I’m playing! I’m playing!” The music resumed, perhaps more frantically than before.

Looking up at the woman who was no longer middle-aged, the old man grunted, “You okay?”

“Si . . . I’s not eso bad. Just a—how do you esay?—espasm. I’s stopped. Y tu?”

Gingerly, using the picnic table at every step, Stan clambered to his feet. “I . . . will feel it tomorrow, but I think I’m good for now . . . Maybe . . . Heh. Maybe it’s time we took a break for a while from dancing? Had something to eat?”

Pulling her wrap tighter about her shoulders, Esmerelsa nodded and sat. “It does esmell delicious. Eso . . . I now lead us to table! Siéntate y comamos!”

“Heh. Even I know what that meant. What was that thing you used to say? ‘Bwin Pro-vay-sho’?”

“. . . Close enough,” she said, offering him some arroz con coco Columbian.

****

Silence.

Dipper, Mabel, and Norman (and Detoby) clung to each other in utter silence. The fog oozed around them, but apart from their own labored panting, not a single sound broke the silence. It was as if they were the only beings—living _and_ dead—in the entire world.

Finally, Mabel breathed. “M-maybe it was just a coincidental power outage?”

“Yeah, _that_ sounds plausible . . .” Norman muttered sarcastically.

“Maybe . . . maybe she’s right?” Dipper suggested. “I mean . . . nothing’s happening . . .”

Detoby shuddered. {Eerie as a Great Lake.}

“No kidding,” Norman murmured. “So . . . what do we do now?”

“Should we keep moving?” Mabel asked. “To the Shack?”

Dipper nodded. “I think so, yeah. We’ll keep moving down this street—it should be a straight shot back . . . Though my bearings are a _little_ off in this fog . . .” he admitted tensely.

“Oh, _fantastic_ . . .” Mabel whimpered.

“What? I can’t see any landmarks in this fog!”

“Can you go around and look for a street sign, Detoby?” Norman requested quietly.

{Why does it have to be me?} the ghost demanded unhappily.

“Because nothing can see you but me, so _it_ can’t hurt you if it’s waiting for us . . . I _think_ . . .”

{Oh, sure. Send the dead fella to reconnoiter just because theoretically the worst has already befallen him.}

“That’s the spirit for a spirit.”

{You little wurp!} With a sigh, the Jokergeist yielded, but not with good grace. {That _wasn’t_ funny. And I’m pretty sure this is some of that ‘discrimination’ stuff you and Elaine were nagging me about earlier . . . Discrimination against the _dead_.}

“Then just think that now you know how all the Micks and Dagos and . . . whatever elses felt,” Norman said with a hint of satisfaction. “Tonight you’re becoming a better person.”

{Oh, _hooey_ . . .} Detoby muttered as he drifted into the fog.

Mabel was already so close to Norman that she didn’t have to lean in to whisper in his ear, “What’s a Mick? What’s a Dago?”

“Best f-forgotten . . .” Norman replied.

A moment of silence elapsed, then Dipper breathed, “Do you think it’s out there?”

“Well, like you said, nothing’s happening . . .” Norman answered uncertainly. And then, he was suddenly very aware of how close Dipper was standing. And that one of Dipper’s hands was entwined with his. And it felt really warm. And soft. And suddenly, Norman wasn’t sure if that was calming him, or if it was causing him to panic for an entirely different reason. And then, it suddenly occurred to him that they both had an arm protectively around Mabel (and she around them)—but that their arms touched, so that if Mabel hadn’t been there, they would have been standing in each other’s arms.

Oblivious to all this sudden turmoil, Dipper was reasoning, “Yeah, so what’s it waiting for?”

Norman, of course, barely registered any of it. He was busy thinking that he might actually faint. That maybe Dipper would hold him if he did.

“Can you _see_ anything?”

“Wha? Er . . . You th-think only I c-can see it?”

“I was actually just thinking you’ve got really good eyesight, but now that you mention it . . .”

Obligingly, Norman looked around, but he ventured, “I d-don’t _think_ the ‘malevolent sentience’ is gonna be invisible to you. Like, was the guy who wrote the journals also a M-Medium? Is that likely? Besides, didn’t they write that the things from behind the Cursed Doors m-_manifest_ with dark energy? That m-means _everyone_ should be able to see them. _Should_ . . .”

“What if it’s just, like, a _regular_ ghost? Like a surprise-but-secretly-obvious-the-whole-time twist from a M. Night Shyamalan movie?” Mabel posited.

“A _regular_ ghost behind the door?” Dipper asked skeptically. “From _our_ world originally?”

“Yeah, that . . . s-seems a stretch. Besides, how could a r-regular ghost abduct five physical kids? It’d . . . _have_ to be a p-poltergeist, at least. Like Aggie . . .” Norman added distantly.

“But, still, that’d be a poltergeist behind a Cursed Door—a poltergeist from our dimension coming through a doorway to another dimensions” Dipper clarified. “That seems a stretch, too.”

With a shrug, Mabel theorized, “It could’ve gone in and come back.”

“Why, though? Why come back to our dimension after leaving?”

“To kidnap children, obviously.”

“But _why_, though?” Dipper repeated emphatically. “What does it gain from that?”

Suddenly, Norman hissed, “Sssh! Wait! Detoby’s coming back . . .”

Ghosts are always pale, and Detoby was always wide-eyed, but now the look on his face frightened even the boy Medium. {You’ve gotta _go_. _Now_.}

“What’s wrong? Did you . . . Did you see—”

{You’re on _Main Street_, Bugaboo!}

“_Main Street_?!” Norman squeaked.

“_Main Street_?!” Dipper hissed.

“Where?! What address?!” Mabel gasped.

{You’re all standing outside _Fantastic Scholastic_!}

“F-_Fantastic_—_No_!”

Dipper and Mabel both let go then—one to spin towards the store front (raking it with her eyes, hoping for proof Detoby was wrong) and the other to spin in the opposite direction (looking to the Cursed Door across the street, where he was sure the Slender Man was hiding). Norman just stood there in shock.

{What are you _waiting_ _for_, Bugaboo?! _Run_, damn it!}

With the warmth of Dipper’s touch gone (and even the warmth of Mabel’s) all warmth seemed to drain out of Norman. It left him feeling numb and empty to the core. Fear surged into that emptiness, and a wave of bone-deep cold washed over him with it.

Your time has come. There is no escape now.

A second later, the others jerked back around; they had all felt it, too—even Detoby.

{_Cold_—}

**LONELINESS**

The streetlamp overhead flared painfully back into life; but it did not pierce the fog—it set it ablaze! At its smoldering periphery, a form garbed in the black of an undertaker! But how tall was it? Not a one of the three kids (nor even Detoby) could tell—then or ever—just how tall it was. Seven feet tall? Ten? As tall as the streetlamp? As tall as a building? But they would all agree that it was as thin as a skeleton, with arms that reached nearly to the ground! Its hands were pale as a corpse’s, as was its face—a blank face without nose or mouth or eyes!

Detoby tried vainly to shove the Medium, shouted at him, {GO! _RUN_!}

Yet Norman didn’t move. He couldn’t move—couldn’t do anything but stare in abject horror.

**TAKE AWAY**

“Wha . . . ?”

For the scarcest trace of an instant, it seemed to Norman that a real face was pushing through the blankness. But it was contorted hideously—a mouth gaping and grimacing under scrunched eyes—as if shrieking. Then the face was blank again. Yet it was too fascinatingly horrific for him to look away, even as a skeletally thin, skeletally white hand reached towards him through the fog.

“_NORMAN_! _C’MON_!” Two different hands seized Norman from behind and yanked him around! One was Dipper’s and one was Mabel’s! He snapped back to reality in an instant, finding that his feet were already pounding the ground with theirs! And, though unseeing, his hands also found theirs! Flooded with adrenaline, they were all fleeing blindly together through the fog!

**COME BACK**

It was like a voice shrieking directly into their brains! Directly into their hearts!

Had any of the kids been alone, it might have broken them—might have drained them entirely of any hope of escape and of all will to run. Had any of the kids been alone, they might have despaired—might have stopped running and wept helplessly on the ground while the Slender Man came for them. But they weren’t alone, and they _knew_ that! Their hands were clenched too tightly to doubt it—and _that_ was the proof! Painful under normal circumstances, reassuring now! So they didn’t stop running!

{It’s following behind us!} Detoby shouted alongside them. {Go . . . um, right! Down that street!}

Norman lunged right, pulling the twins after him!

{Still coming, but we’re losing it! Get ready to go left . . . NOW!}

Norman lunged down another side street, with the twins following his lead!

**CAN’T RUN**

Mabel sobbed breathlessly, but didn’t stop running! Dipper shouted, “Keep going! Don’t listen!”

{It’s falling behind! You can do it!} Detoby urged them on. {Go right and you might lose it! Now!}

Norman lunged to the right again, and they sprinted down a wide street!

Suddenly, a barred gate loomed out of the fog—blocking their way forward! “No!” Mabel seized two bars and shook them desperately, but the gate was locked! “_NonononoNO_!”

“Through the bars!” Dipper hissed, barely managing to squeeze between two of them himself! He then reached through for his sister, and Norman pushed her through!

An instant later, Norman was ramming himself through! But then . . . he jerked back with a gag! “Ugh!” He couldn’t move forward! IT HAD CAUGHT HIM! Panic flooded his mind!

Dipper spun around, “NO!” and grabbed his friend’s arms, trying to yank him free.

“H-hold on! Snagged hood!” Mabel gasped. Then she snaked forward, grabbed the zipper of the taller boy’s hoodie, and tore it down—allowed him to thrash out of it to freedom!

They stumbled forward until they nearly tripped over a waist-high stone. Mabel froze before it. It was part of a long row that stretched off to the right and the left; another row lay not far behind it, and another behind that. “You led us to the _cemetery_?!”

“Well . . . _Detoby_—”

“This is _perfect_!” Dipper declared suddenly. “There’s like a gajillion places to hide here!”

“You want to hide in a _cemetery_ when a _monster_ is coming for us?!” Mabel shrilled.

**COMING FOR YOU**

“_Yes_!” And grabbing Mabel and Norman by the hand again, Dipper charged into the fog ahead! Tombstones blurred past, monuments materialized and dissolved, and they weaved around them all! Then Dipper ground to a halt, and tugged the others behind a low mausoleum!

Panting for breath, Mabel shrunk away from it. She kept a tight hold of her brother’s hand, though. “_Fantastic_ . . .” she murmured aloud. “We couldn’t find . . . a _creepier_ place to hide . . . if we had _all_ _week_ to look!”

{What’s she talking about?} Detoby asked nervously. {This is a first-class dance hall for doing the _Lindy Drop-Dead_.} And he honked his spectral horn.

“Heh . . . Now is sooo _not_ the time, Detoby . . .” the Medium cracked weakly. He was cowering against the mausoleum on Dipper’s other side, and he too was clinging to Dipper’s hand.

“Prob’ly gonna have . . . _zombies_ after us, too . . .” Mabel went on.

“They’d _help_ us . . .” Norman contended. “Seeing some now would make me _sooo_ happy . . . And they’re _undead_—the Z-word is offensive . . .”

“Shhh!” Dipper urged them softly. “It’ll hear you . . . I’m gonna take a look now, okay?” And then he crept away from them (though neither willingly let his hand slip from theirs) and craned his head around the corner of the crypt. He thought he could just make out the Slender Man moving searchingly in the fog a distance away—its grotesquely inhuman silhouette moving in a way that was too smooth, yet too jerky at the same time. But a second later, it went rigid. As though it were listening carefully . . .

**HIDE AND SEEK**

Mabel whimpered, though she had her hands clapped over her mouth.

“It’s okay . . .” Dipper whispered perfunctorily to her; it was without much conviction, however. He saw the Slender Man had changed direction, and was slowly moving closer toward their hiding place.

“How is it ‘_okay’_?!” she hissed back. “We’re being stalked by a monster from another dimension that steals kids, and it’s _all my fault_! That’s like the _antonym_ of ‘okay’ in the dictionary! In fact, I don’t see how things could be any _worse_!”

{You could all be on fire,} the Jokergeist offered feebly.

In spite of himself, a strangled laugh escaped Norman’s lips. And then he couldn’t stop laughing, try as he might to suppress it. Perhaps it was one of those moments where one laughs so as not to cry. And perhaps that was why it sounded so much like he was sobbing.

{It wasn’t _that_ funny . . .} Detoby said worriedly.

“Keep it together, guys!” Dipper begged them, even as he shepherded them around the crypt. He could only hope that its bulk would keep them hidden—would shield them from the Slender Man.

“What are you laughing at?” Mabel hissed.

“We could . . . all be . . . _on_ _fire_! Ha!” Norman chocked out.

**GETTING WARMER**

Now Norman’s laughter metamorphosed to sobbing in earnest, and Mabel seemed on the verge of breaking down completely. It could _hear_ them, they were certain of it!

Dipper’s heart sank, for he could see the Slender Man was circling inexorably closer—like a noose tightening around their necks. And he realized then that all three of them could not possibly evade it long enough to reach the Shack. There was simply no way they could all make it together . . .

“But _maybe_ if I . . .” he mused aloud, considering a new and unwelcome idea as dispassionately as he could. It was a horribly logical one, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any other choice. With a nod, he determined it _might_ work . . . _Maybe_ . . .

“I’m sorry, guys . . . I’m _so_ sorry . . .” Mabel was tearfully whispering again. Over and over again. As compulsively as Norman’s strangled half-laughs-half-sobs.

Swallowing thickly, Dipper knelt between them and once more took them both by the hand. “Look at me, guys. Look at me,” he instructed them. Gently but firmly. When their tear-streaked faces were turned hopelessly to him, he gave them the bravest smile he had. “Everything’s gonna be alright. I’m telling you that now, understand? I’ve got a plan, so trust me. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Mabel shook her head bleakly. “N-no, it’s not . . .”

“Yes, it will,” Dipper asserted calmly. “Because we’ll protect each other. You’ll protect Norman, Norman’ll protect you, and I’ll protect the both of you. That’ll make my plan work.”

“It’ll still get us! That won’t be enough!” Mabel wept in despair.

With the definitive confidence that makes mountains step aside, Dipper simply declared, “Mabel, you’re _my_ _sister_. So I _will_ protect you. And that’s _all_ there is to it. Nothing else matters. _Nothing_. And Norman . . . Okay, so I know we haven’t known each other _that_ long—like, maybe a week? But still, you’re already . . . well, the best friend I’ve ever had,” he admitted somewhat shyly. “And I mean that. You rock. So that means you’re like . . . like my brother . . . bro . . . brohort . . . or something, at least . . .” he said awkwardly, because Norman was staring so intently at him. “So anyway, I _will_ protect you, too. Both of you. That’s what brothers do, right? Isn’t that what their duty is? Everything’s gonna be alright, because I _will_ protect you guys. Just like you’ll protect each other. _While we follow my plan_.”

“But—”

“You trust me, don’t you, Mabel? What about you, Norman?”

“I . . . D-Dipper . . .” There was a faltering in Norman’s blue eyes. And then they met Dipper’s—met the steadiness in those brown depths. Such strength was therein (with intelligence and cleverness, kindness, humor, dynamism, and a thousand other qualities) that Norman felt his fear ebb the longer he looked into them. He knew then that they were the eyes of a person he could always trust. Absolutely.

And Norman knew then (in a way that was as unexpected—but also as undeniable—as his first, unbidden thought about Dipper had been) that they were the eyes of the person he would always love. Absolutely. He gulped down his fear and nodded. “Yes. I trust you. Absolutely.”

“See?” Dipper said kindly but pointedly to Mabel. “Norman trusts me. Don’t you, too?”

**CAN’T HIDE**

Mabel relented at that, pleading, “What’s your plan, Dipping Sauce?”

“The Slender Man is circling us, but it’s still a distance away,” he explained quickly. “So we’re gonna slip around to the other side of this crypt. The one that’s facing the Shack. Then when I say—when it’s all the way on the other side—we’re gonna run. Just run.”

“_That’s_ it?! _That’s_ your big plan?!” Mabel demanded.

“The crypt’ll block us from view until we’re clear across the cemetery,” Dipper contended. “So if we run quietly, it might not see us at all. We can slip away.”

{Better make it soon,} Detoby warned the Medium. {It’s getting closer.}

“Detoby says it’s getting c-closer! We need to make it soon!” the Medium transmitted in a rush, gripping his friend’s hand tighter than before.

“But—”

“Mabel, for _once_ in my life, _please_ listen to me without questioning everything!” Dipper begged his sister. “There’s no time for this!”

For a moment, she seemed about to balk. Then she nodded.

Dipper led them around the corner, and then pressed their hands together. “D-don’t let go, okay? Whatever happens, hold onto each other,” he implored them. “Keep each other going.”

“W-what about you?” Norman asked worriedly, though he clung to Mabel’s hand.

“I have to watch for it. You two face that way,” he ordered quickly, pointing through the fog, and the graveyard, and the woods, to where the Mystery Shack lay. “When I say, run. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. And don’t let go of each other. Not for anything. Just run.”

“B-but, what about _you_?” Mabel insisted.

“Yeah!” Norman concurred.

“I’ll be b-behind you all the way. I _promise_,” Dipper answered with forced heartiness. Then, before they could object again, he craned his head around the corner. “R-ready?”

Trusting him, Norman turned and pulled Mabel gently with him. They both tensed, ready to kick forward into a sprint. Their hearts were already racing. Only Detoby continued to watch the behatted boy apprehensively.

Peering at the Slender Man, watching it slowly turn its blank face in their—in _his_—direction, Dipper felt a near total terror. It was only near total, because though it gripped him, there was a part of him it could not touch. A part of him that would not balk; a part of him that would stand its ground for his sister and friend. So he knew he would go through with his plan, no matter the consequences—he did not doubt that, not even for a second . . . He just had to wait for the most opportune moment . . .

When the Slender Man had turned completely towards the mausoleum, when its blank face was cocked curiously at it, Dipper gave the command. “Run.” He listened briefly with satisfaction as the feet of his sister and his friend pounded against the sod; they were running straight to safety. And then, with the stoical expression of a lamb that sacrifices itself, he stepped forward with his arms spread wide.

**FOUND YOU**

“That’s right, ugly. Come and get me,” Dipper muttered, trembling, at the approaching creature.

{No! You gotta stop him! Bugaboo? _Bugaboo_!} Detoby bawled after the Medium.

But Norman didn’t hear; he and Mabel were both too carried away with the adrenaline of flight to do anything but run! All that existed was the ground ahead!

Soaring after them, Detoby cried with all his might, {LOOK BEHIND YOU, BUGABOO! _NORMAN_!} But when even that failed to catch his attention, he propelled himself ahead of them, waving madly!

“Gah!” Norman startled to a stop, though Mabel’s momentum dragged them forward a step. “Detoby, what’s wrong with you?!”

{LOOK BACK! _LOOK BACK_! YOU’VE GOT TO _STOP_ THE IDIOT!}

“What id—” And then dread squeezed his heart like a vice. “_No_! _Dipper_!”

“_Dipper_?!” Mabel repeated in a panic.

They both spun back around, and through the shroud of fog saw him standing with his arms thrown wide! As if he were welcoming the skeletally thin, skeletally pale form that loomed impossibly high over his small frame! That was reaching down for him! That was going to snatch him out of their lives forever!

“RUN, YOU DIPSTICK!” Mabel shrieked.

At the last second, Dipper dove to the side—away from the mausoleum and the Slender Man! Its cadaveresque hand clutched at empty air! And before it could make a second grab at him, Dipper rolled to his feet and was bolting back towards the town—away from Norman and Mabel and the Shack! “C-catch me if you can!” he yelped over his shoulder, even as the Slender Mand swept close behind him!

“We’ve gotta help him! D-_do_ _something_!” Mabel begged Norman. But she could see there was nothing they could do. They were just too far away, with the distance growing every second—they could never reach Dipper in time. Still, she sobbed, “P-_please_! _Anything_!”

{But I can’t, damn it all!} Detoby cursed in impotent anguish. {I can’t do anything!}

Norman fell to his knees. Tears were streaming down his face, and he felt like his heart was being ripped slowly apart in his chest. There was nothing he could do—but there had to be _something_! But there wasn’t . . . But there _had_ to be! Anything more than kneeling there, watching helplessly as the person he loved was carried off by a thing of nightmares! But there wasn’t . . .

“H-help . . .” Norman whimpered, so softly he could barely hear his own voice. “_Help_ . . .”

He was vaguely aware of Mabel and Detoby—the former shaking him and sobbing, the latter shouting and waving wildly at him. But his eyes were fixed solely on Dipper and the Slender Man.

Dipper, who was exhausted and terrified and helpless and alone against the Slender Man!

Dipper, who was scrambling unsteadily over wet ground while the Slender Man pursued him!

Dipper, who was dodging around tombstones, avoiding the Slender Man by mere inches!

Dipper, who inevitably slipped and fell to the ground while the Slender Man towered over him!

“Help . . .” Norman chocked out.

{But I can’t!}

“Noooo!” Mabel wailed.

Something in Norman resonated with her anguish, perhaps his last unbroken heartstring. Then, like a violin string pulled too tight, it snapped! His internal dam had suddenly burst within him, and a force surged through him—through his chest, his limbs, his head! He rose to his feet and it surged past his lips as a shout that could shake the world!

“**HELP**!”

The air actually pulsed with energy, and it rippled outward from Norman faster than sound!

Mabel would later swear that it glowed a spectral color. The same color that had flashed in Norman’s eyes—the same color that had emanated from Norman’s body—as he rose _without_ _standing_.


	19. Chapter 19

“Mm-mmm! This stuff is _delicious_!” Stan exclaimed around a mouthful. “It’s funny, y’know . . . I’ve lived here for years, but never gone to this place before. Thought it would bring back too many . . . bad memories . . . But every bite would be worth an hour of crying! How’s your back, by the way?”

“I told you already, mi eStanford, i’s okay. Don’t worry. Wha’s this place called again?”

“Coco Poco Loco. That means ‘the coconut that’s a little crazy’, right?”

Esmerelsa nodded. “Or ‘coco’ can also mean a—how do you esay?—a man with no hair?”

“Bald?”

“Si! Si!” she said excitedly. “Eso ‘coco poco loco’ can also mean a bald who is a little crazy.”

“Huh. The chef _was_ as bald as a cue ball, and kinda nuts. In a fun way . . . You ever want to start a restaurant? I remember, when I was younger, thinking it would be kinda fun,” Stan reminisced. “Though I’m not much of a cook, of course. But all the energy and the craziness and the chance to inflate costs to the point of robbery while still being legal . . .”

“Not me. Too much people being messy everywhere. I would go . . . un poco loco.”

“Ha! Yeah, I guess I can’t see you liking that. You’d be happier in an accounting office, am I right? All square and neatly organized.”

“Don’ mock it, eStanford. I’s a bery important job that esomeone must do,” Esmerelsa insisted. “Actually, that’s mas o menos what I did for years for El Cartel. I had a little officina,” she stated proudly. “All to me. Because I was eso good. There, I made the numbers dance . . .” After a moment’s reflection, she said, “eSome days, it wasn’t eso bad . . . Fun . . . Challenging . . . And, yes, _organized_. eSome people don’t like messy craziness all the time.”

“Why’d you leave if it wasn’t so bad?”

“Because it was estill bad. And I can never forget that I was their eslave. That they _robbed_ me!” she spat bitterly. “Mi hermano. Mi familia. Mi libertad. Mi vida . . . and mi eStanford,” she added softly. “All this they took from me—they _robbed_ from me! eSo I took their money and their Granos Dorados, because tha’s all they care about. And I ran until . . . el destino brought me back to you . . . Now _we_ could run together, burn their dirty money—”

Stan blanched visibly. “Burn it?!”

“Metaphorically. By espending it with wild abandon.”

“Oh . . .” the old man sighed in relief.

“Maybe . . . we could use it to buy back esome of the time they estole from us . . .”

Soulfully, Stan Pines contemplated the Colombian woman. Still so beautiful. And now so rich. Sultry and spicy and a woman so much of him still burned for. Together they could rob the world blind—she would love it as much as he would. What more could he ask for? What more had he ever hoped for? “Esmerelsa—”

“**HELP!**”

Stan sat bolt upright, and (some thirty feet away) Soos’ hands faltered; the accordion tumbled into silence—as if it had tripped down a flight of musical stairs, for accordions cannot simply fall silent.

“Paintbrush?” Soos voiced worriedly.

“eSomething wrong, mi eStanford? You look like you esaw . . . How do you esay fantasma?”

“Didn’t you hear that?” Stan asked tensely.

“Hear _what_?”

****

Located strategically on the street of William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School, the Sweet Tooth had become a profitable little enterprise. By selling all manner of sugary treats—including the best soft serve ice-cream in Gravity Falls—it had become a “beloved institution” (according to the tourism pamphlets) for the townspeople. Especially the younger and fatter ones.

Yes, the previous occupant hated that. And yes, oddly enough, he flatly refused to leave; he spent nearly all his time there, striving in what little ways he could to avenge the intolerable indignity that had been inflicted upon his life’s work some eight years prior (when, as he often and irately put it, {The unpretentious office of Bertram Pincus, D.D.S., a temple of oral hygiene, was mutated into a shrine to the cult of tooth decay by_ that sacrilicious_ _harlot of Babylon_! Before my body was even cold!}). Everyone in town (or, at least, everyone dead plus Norman Babcock) knew this. They also knew that there was little he could actually _do_ to avenge said intolerable indignity. Despite the perpetual moral froth into which fate continually whipped him, he could only manifest enough to _maybe_ rearrange some items of the shop or alter some of the promotionals . . . but it mostly seemed to amuse the new owner—that unjustly svelte woman who now took delight in telling people about the ghostly dentist that haunted her store.

The first time she had told people about him, he had been so furious that he had successfully managed to alter one of her business cards to say, “I hate you so much, you dental jezebel. Sincerely, Bertram Pincus, D.D.S.” The manifestation had left him drained, and had left her in a fit of hysterics. She’d had the nerve to frame the card afterwards, for which he had retaliated by tipping over her *shudder* coffee mug; it had been empty of her normally over-sugared, teeth-staining swill at the time, but that was beside the point—a point which was that no coffee was safe under _his_ roof! It might take a day to muster the energy to upend it, _but upended it would be_ if his ire was provoked!

Yet to the wrath of the deceased dentist, he had become an attraction which boosted her sells.

Moreover, she had the nerve to offer him a salutation upon her arrival and departure each day. Called him “Pinky”! As if they were _friends_! He cherished fantasies of garroting her with a licorice whip. The poetic justice would have been . . . _sweet_.

This was just Bertram Pincus’s death, as all who knew him knew well. And he hated it, yet willingly continued to perpetuate it. So now he was occupied with changing the listed price of lollipops from some dollar amount to “one cavity EACH”, and thinking that someday he would have the stamina necessary to alter the sign on the front of the building. He was debating within himself about the relative merits of “The Rotten Tooth” or “The Decaying Tooth”.

And that was when the deceased dentist heard it. Or felt it.

“**HELP**!”

He reeled as though he had been struck. Then, aghast, he looked around. A deep sense of dread, one which he could not explain, had invaded him. {M-Mister Babcock?} he faltered apprehensively, for he had recognized the voice of the boy Medium. {I’ve . . . I must go find him!} he declared, for he knew it by the dread in his heart. {Soon! At once!}

He flew from the building, somehow already knowing which direction to go.

**** 

Grandmother Chiu watched approvingly as Candy—acting as tonight’s Mistress of Ceremonies—prepared cha (Korean tea) for her tightknit family. Candy would serve the others, as Grandmother Chiu had taught her, and determine the topics of conversation; such was her privilege. True, the topics varied very rarely (school and extracurricular activities for the kids, work and social activities for the adults, friends and family plans for all—the day-to-day events of shared lives), but tonight Candy held unquestionable authority over their thoroughly relaxing, easy, and entirely natural progression.

This was darye, the Korean tea ceremony, and it was a custom of the Chiu family to perform it together every evening. The pride of Grandmother Chiu’s death was that it continued even without her physical presence to enforce it.

A staunch traditionalist, she had insisted upon it in life—wanting to instill an anchor for both their cultural heritage and their familial bonds in this America. She had also insisted that the language of the home and _especially_ of darye be Korean. Provided no guests were present. Though admittedly, she had encouraged any and all guests _not_ to be present during darye time. Sometimes with her cane. Stories were still told of her chasing people away while shouting in her heavily accented English, “Famiry and curture important-oo! You go away, you have ice cream! My treat! Don’t come back-oo!”

Finally, the last cup was set before an (apparently) empty place—Grandmother Chiu’s place, which they always set in memory of her. That was the joy of her death. Listening contentedly to the Korean chatter, she leaned over the cha and admired its mellow color. Then she leaned so close that, had she been corporeal, her face would have been wet with steam. She could almost taste it again . . . She dreamed of tasting the cha again . . .

“**HELP**!”

{Mwah? Waeh?} she murmured in confusion, because she knew that voice. And then it clicked. {Norman-oo?!} she exclaimed, in a panic she did not yet comprehend. But that did not matter; all that mattered was that she knew the child needed her!

An instant later, she had surged out of the Chiu residence!

{Coming, Norman-oo! You wait, you just wait! Coming-oo!}

****

Sitting (or floating in a sitting position) at the kitchen table, Elaine knitted as the human drama that was the Babcock household unfolded. In a way, it was better than her stories.

Her son galumphed into the kitchen, where his wife was preparing dinner. He sidled over to the stovetop, where two pots were heating, and lifted the lid off of one. He grimaced. “Steamed carrots?”

“And brown rice cooked with chicken stock for a meaty flavor,” his wife answered. “It also has almonds and some coconut in it for a gourmet taste.”

“To go with steamed carrots?” Perry grumbled.

“And fruit.” Sandra’s tone made it clear that no argument would be tolerated.

Open on the table lay the heart-healthy cookbook which had birthed this travesty of a meal. Perry glowered at it, at the skinny people who beamed vapidly up at him from its pages. They had eyes like cows. Skinny cows, yes, but cows nonetheless. They had exercised all the fat from their bodies, including their brains (which everyone knows are made of fat cells—so by rights, “fathead” should be a compliment), and now they were all clearly dead inside. No joy in their lives, so no joy in their cooking. But that had not been enough for the vapid cows, oh no! They had to suck the joy out of his food, too! “Sons of bitches . . .” Perry muttered under his breath.

“What was that, honey?” Sandra asked in a dangerously sweet voice.

“I said it smells nice.

“_Good_.”

{Heh!} Elaine chuckled.

“It’s just, do we have to eat this way every night?”

“The doctor said that if we don’t get your weight under control, it’s going to kill you,” Sandra countered pointedly. “Since we started this diet, you’ve lost ten pounds. And I’ve lost five,” she added with satisfaction.

“But what’s the point of _being_ _alive_ if you’re not _living_?!” Perry burst out.

“Set the table, honey. Please.” The please was like silk wrapped around a hammer.

With a sigh, Perry capitulated. “Fine . . . Are just forks good, or—”

“**HELP**!”

Sandra let out a small scream of maternal fright, her hands clapping reflexively over her mouth. Perry jerked around, his face suddenly ashen. Spectral knitting needles and yarn fell from Elaine’s hands, (to vanish into the ether rather than clatter on the floor).

“Was that . . . Norman?” Sandra mouthed in shock.

{Normy? _Normy_?!} Elaine called out agitatedly.

“NORMAN? NORMAN ARTHUR BABCOCK!” Perry yelled towards the stairs.

There was a sound of a door being thrown open upstairs, then Courtney shrilled back, “HE’S NOT HERE! HE’S NOT IN HIS ROOM!”

“_WHAT_?!” her father bellowed. “BUT I _TOLD_ HIM AND HIS FRIENDS TO _STAY_ _PUT_!”

Courtney came thundering down the stairs, then threw the front door open. “NORMAN!” she cried into the fog outside. “NORMAN!”

Perry barreled out of the kitchen, demanding, “Is he out there?! Can you hear him?!”

“I . . . I don’t know!”

{Somebody think of his cellphone . . . _Somebody think of his cellphone_!}

“Have you tried his cell?!” Sandra rapped out.

Drawing hers from her pocket faster than a western sheriff could draw his revolver at high noon, Courtney sent the call! But it didn’t connect. “_Still_ _no_ _bars_?!” she burst out savagely. “GRARGH! How long’s it gonna take someone to fix that?! It’s been, like, _a whole freakin’_ _week_!”

“Try it again!” Sandra pleaded.

“It’s not going through, Mom! It’s just _not_ going through!”

A moment of instinctual family terror followed, though none of them comprehended just why. And then Elaine couldn’t stand it any longer; she zoomed away from the household, moving straight towards an unknown destination, calling out, {Normy! Normy! Answer me! _Please_!}

Meanwhile, Perry was throwing on his coat. “I’m gonna go find him,” he declared.

“I’ll come with!” Sandra volunteered.

“No, you stay here in case he comes back. And, um . . . keep the sluggers handy . . .”

Sandra gasped. “Y-you don’t think something’s—”

“I don’t know what to think, honey. I just know that I have to find our son.” And then, Perry was hustling out into the fog.

As she had been directed, Sandra went to the closet to extract the emergency baseball bats. One of them was tossed to her daughter, who sighed, “Guess this means my movie date with Hotty McHolty is getting cancelled . . . Norm had _better_ be okay . . .”

****

There was fog above. There was fog below. There was fog to the right, there was fog to the left, and there was fog behind. But directly ahead was a roaring wall of cascading water. It seemed to drop from the turbid obscurity above into the equally turbid obscurity below.

{Out of darkness . . . And into darkness . . .} Robert Whitehawk intoned thoughtfully.

In life, he had stood both at the bottom and at the top of Gravity Falls (meaning the waterfall); both presented an awe-inspiring sight—both were unforgettable. Yet it was only in death that he had been able to stand (in a metaphorical-but-kinda-actually-floating way) _between_ the two.

{Death is like that,} he had said once. {It allows you to see things differently. If you try.}

But the sight of it now—in the midst of this strange fog—was different than anything else he had ever seen in life or death. It was like the roaring cascade was coming from and going to nowhere. As if it only existed in this present moment, while it was still obvious that this present moment was part of a chain of moments before and after. A moment of noise and of movement to overwhelm the senses. A moment of noise and of movement that seemed to come from and go to nowhere at all.

{Out of darkness and into darkness . . .} he repeated meditatively.

He remembered leading a fishing expedition with a physicist who had said those very words while discoursing excitedly about the universe. “We don’t see the cause, just the effect—which, in turn, becomes the cause for another effect. And from that, we try to deduce the cause and the next effect. Both at the same time. And also the cause before that and the cause before that, with the effect after the next effect. And so on _ad_ _infinitum_! It’s like gravity! We don’t know why or how it works. We’re not even sure that it _does_ work all the time, because the smallest known particles seem to do whatever they want! They seem to have their own rules which we can’t yet understand . . . Or take the Big Bang theory. We can guess that’s how it happened based on what we observe, and that the universe is expanding while matter forms itself into stars that become black holes, but we can’t ever _know_ for sure . . . We just see the _now_, but that now comes out of darkness and goes into more darkness . . . Personally, I think once the force of the Big Bang runs out, it’s all going to gradually collapse back in. To all start over again. Like respiration on a universal scale. In and out. Explode and implode. Genesis and apocalypse . . .”

Of course, Robert Whitehawk had listened—he was a very good listener—with mild interest, and politely not commented that he wasn’t sure that answered the question: Which bait do you prefer?

Oddly enough, another client had also used those very words. The second one was a theologist. “What fascinates me is how every culture has produced fundamentally the same theory about the soul; it comes from one place, and then it goes to another place. That place might be another spiritual plane, or it might be another body, or it might be the world around us, but they all agree that the soul exists beyond the life of the body . . . Reasonably, how can that be? That is to say, how can the soul behave so differently than the body? Do different laws govern it? And . . . how can the conception of the soul be so universal, while practically no other part of culture is? Is it some fundamental truth, readily apparent to ancient man in his uncomplicated wisdom? But how can they each be so sure, when we can see nothing of what lies before birth and nothing after death? When we come out of darkness and go into darkness, and barely understand the light around us now? That’s what fascinates me so . . . Half of me is afraid there’s _nothing_ after death, and half of me is afraid that _everything_ is after death—no matter which definition of ‘everything’ we choose. But also, all of me is afraid I’m so occupied with what comes after that I’m wasting what comes before . . . We only ever get one _now_, after all . . . Which is a lot like saying we only ever get one _life_ . . .”

As always, Robert Whitehawk had nodded—he was good at the little nod which expressed encouragement without necessarily agreeing—and politely not commented that he had only asked: Have you ever fished on a river before?

Most of his clients had been men who seemed to just want someone to listen to them talk, more than men who actually wanted to fish. Perhaps they had considered a fishing expedition to be some sort of “man therapy” (which “manly men” can take without having to admit they took therapy). Still, they had been paying. And he could fish while listening sympathetically (even interestedly) to them talk about issues which he (personally) believed they had overcomplicated in their own minds. Himself, he had always had a rather simple view of life and the universe: the point of it all was fishing.

But now, floating halfway up Gravity Falls, Robert Whitehawk thought he could understand what those two men had meant and what they had felt. {I wonder if either of them is closer to their answers . . . I wonder if I’m—}

“**HELP**!”

He whipped around, staring back towards the town. {Ecelkcelk?!} he murmured frantically. {What in the hell?! Hang on, kiddo!} And then Robert Whitehawk was soaring straight at the town—straight at the cemetery—faster than sound!

And so were Bertram Pincus, Grandmother Chiu, and Elaine Babcock. Fortunately for the kids, ghosts can move that fast because souls _are_ governed by different laws; they have their own rules, which the living (and themselves, for that matter) do not yet understand.

****

“**HELP**!”

The Slender Man’s cadaverous hand paused in midair over Dipper. Oh so slowly, it turned its featureless head in Norman’s direction and cocked it curiously.

You . . . just did what I did. You just made a ripple . . . How could a mere human do this?

And Norman held its eyeless gaze. He did not break whatever spell of silence and stillness seemed to have fallen over the Slender Man; he did not dare. He was praying Dipper would have the sense to use it to slip away. But, to his frustration, the spell seemed to have fallen over Dipper, too. And Mabel. Neither moved—neither even breathed. They just gaped at Norman in disbelief.

Only Detoby was unaffected. {But I can’t help! I can’t do anything!} he railed at the cruel reality of their situation. {I can only yell at you to run for it! So why’re you all just standing there like you’re possessed?! You could—} Then he froze. In a moment of transcendent epiphany, he realized that he actually _could_ do something to help the kids. He _could_ save them! He _could_ be their hero, and _could_ have been all along! He just needed a little help to start the show . . . {I am such a _noodle_-_head_ . . .} he muttered to himself. {And I’m sorry to do this to you, Bugaboo, but I bet you’ll forgive me if it works!}

Before the Medium could even register so bizarre a pronouncement, the Jokergeist dove at him! In fact, the Jokergeist dove _into_ him!

In would be impossible to entirely and accurately describe what happened in the next second.

Within Norman’s body was a sudden, chaotic storm of memories and once-familiar sensations as two different minds reflexively struggled to occupy the same brain.

The boy felt the drudgery of years wasted while dredging up stories from the muck of humanity, the glorious elation of standing on stage to guffaws and cheers, and the gnawing need to reclaim that sense of fulfillment (no matter how frequent the frustrations or how high the eventual cost would be); he felt the disorientation of weightlessness which fills those who live on as shadows in a solid world—like disembodied eyes and ears and voices—and the alienation of not belonging (never, _ever_ belonging) to a world he could not yet leave, and the eternal unease of never quite getting used to eternal unease. It was like being nauseous without a stomach. Forever, but in an instant.

For his part, the ghost felt the aching incomprehension of a pariah who cannot understand why he is scorned, the bitterness of an unwelcome witness who begins to hate the truth that he can’t deny, and the crushing despair of a child who fears the reason no one loves him is because he is unlovable—that he is _aberrant_, that he is somehow _wrong_, that he really is a _freak_; he felt overwhelmed by mass (which bends space and is bent by space, and was pulling all of him down against the earth), and inundated by countless simultaneous sensations: the smells of wet dirt and sweat, the taste of saliva, the touch of cold fog and damp clothing against every inch of a skin made hypersensitive by the chill; he felt the vital imperative pounding through every cell, demanding that the lungs pump and the heart beat while the bowels churned and pushed, muscles tensed and relaxed, and the tongue refused to sit still—every cell wanting to stay alive for even one more brilliantly maddening second of wanting to stay alive. It was like suffering through all the torment of being an addict just to keep suffering through all the torment of being an addict. In an instant, but trying to be forever.

Beyond Norman’s body, the spell broke: the Slender Man reared back around to Dipper, who shrunk desperately away (“No! _No_!”), and Mabel’s disbelief gave way to horror—not for her brother, but at the sudden convulsions racking the boy Medium beside her (“N-_Norman_?!”).

Shock and fear and betrayal and anger exploded in the Medium’s soul! He had not stepped back voluntarily within himself to make room, he was being shoved back and forced out of his own space—the only space that a person can ever truly call their own—by an invader he had believed to be a friend! One that was now stealing his life energy! If words could have been given to all he then felt, it would have been a scream. “This is _my_ body! This is _my_ mind! This is _my_ life energy! Get out of me! GET OUT!”

And Detoby, after an initially inebriating flash of new life, felt a drunkard’s shame. But he held on as Norman fought to expel him. He could not let go, not yet; he _had_ to do this! For Norman! So he drank in as much life energy as he could hold, and then hurled himself back out into the world!

All this in the space of one second.

Feeling like a piece of him had been ripped out, the Medium fell to his knees even as the Jokergiest rose up in a spectral blaze that all the world could see. Even a slack-jawed Mabel. But especially Grandmother Chiu, Bertram Pincus, Robert Whitehawk, and Elaine Babcock, all of whom appeared out of the fog at just that (most awkward) instant.

“It actually worked!” Detoby exclaimed, elated to have a real voice again in spite of everything. “I can manifest! Sorry . . .” he murmured to Norman. There was, in that moment, more guilt in him than the entire Palace of Versailles. And, because Mabel was looking at him with the expression of one whose mind has finally broken under a cumulative ton of disbelief, he tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

Four ghostly voices spoke (or shouted, more accurately) at once:

{Did you just _possess_ my grandson?!}

{Cupid’s cuspids!}

{What in _the hell_ have you done _now_, Detoby?!}

{You stupid crazy man-oo! Why you so stupid crazy-oo?!}

Detoby pointed straight at the Slender Man.

Four ghostly voices spoke (or shouted, more accurately) at once:

{_What in the hell is that_?!}

{Moloch’s molars!}

{*A string of incomprehensible Korean words, 83% of which were vile, _vile_ expletives.*}

{Is that _thing_ after my grandson and his friends?! Is that why he called for help?!}

But the Slender Man was reaching down towards Dipper now! There was no time for an answer, so Detoby flew straight at it! Brandishing his rubber chicken and honking his horn like a Viking wargoose, he warcried, “WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS TO YOUR SIDE OF A CITY ROAD WITH A WRECKING BALL?!” And just before the Slender Man could lay hold of Dipper with its skeletal hand, Detoby wound up and swung his rubber chicken like a morningstar of hack comedy!

SLAP!

The blow landed square on the Slender Man’s blank face! It whiplashed the grotesque creature away from Dipper, who ogled in bewilderment as a spectral barbershop singer with a rubber chicken and a bicycle horn bellowed, “TO KNOCK YOUR BLOCK OFF!”

“Wha?”

“IT’S FUNNY IF YOU’VE EVER LIVED IN A TENEMENT!”

“T-_Toby_ _Determined_?!” Dipper stammered.

“The First!” Detoby answered cavalierly. “And greatest! And—oh my goodness . . .”

The Slender Man’s head connected with the ground—a fact which would have gratified Detoby if its feet had not remained planted. The creature was now surreally bent over backwards into a perfect inverted U-shape. One which was slowly straightening back up.

“. . . That is just _disturbing_.”

In Dipper’s brain, several things finally clicked together. “You’re _Detoby_,” he realized.

**LONELINESS**

Dipper and Detoby both recoiled! Elation changed back to panic, for them and for the other six looking on, as the Slender Man uncurled to rear impossibly high overhead once again! It was angry now; it just had to be! Relentless, it reached for Dipper again!

But seizing him under the arms, the Jokergeist launched them both out of its grasp! They soared through the air, the behatted boy flailing at the sudden speed and height while the Jokergeist crowed, “You can call me ‘Mint Jelly’ instead of Detoby . . . BECAUSE NOW I’M ON THE LAM!”

And then they were in the midst of the others, where Dipper was instantly crushed between Mabel and Norman. Their throats were too constricted to speak; his chest was too constricted to breathe. Three of the ghosts found themselves applauding. For her part, Elaine’s countenance softened when she looked at Detoby. {So it was to save his friend? But wasn’t there any another way?}

For the first time in life or death, however, Detoby was unmoved by applause and accolades. “Now _scram_!” he shouted. “I’ll buy you kids some time! You four keep the kids going!”

{What is even going on here?} Bertram Pincus asked for them all.

“There’s no time for Q&A!” Detoby snapped in exasperation. “RUN! If Norman’s never gonna speak to me again, I want it to have at least been for something!”

Norman swallowed thickly. “D-Detoby—”

“Damn you, Bugaboo, how many times do I gotta tell you to RUN?!”

**END IT**

The Slender Man was crossing the cemetery in impossibly long strides, bearing down on them!

{Wodin’s wisdom teeth!}

“I don’t know how much longer that energy I swiped is gonna last, so don’t stick around! And . . . I’m sorry for swiping it from you,” Detoby added sincerely. “There wasn’t any other way, but I’m sorry.” With that, he blasted away like a bug-eyed cannonball.

For a moment, they all watched him buzzing around the Slender Man, lashing it mercilessly with his rubber chicken and honking defiance; he actually halted its progress. Then Dipper tugged his sister and his best friend away. “We should go, guys.”

“No,” they both answered flatly.

{What?}

“We can’t leave Detoby behind,” Mabel asserted.

Norman concurred, “We have to help him.”

“He’s doing this to save us!” Dipper protested. “Us, the ones _who can still die_!”

{Honor the man’s sacrifice, Ecelkcelk,} Robert Whitehawk ordered sternly.

“Then _you_ _guys_ have to help him! Please!” Norman begged the ghosts.

“Yeah, the ghosts can do it!” Mabel told her brother.

{Us? B-but how?} Bertram Pincus faltered.

“Do what he did!” Norman answered urgently.

“Do what now?” Dipper asked worriedly.

The ghosts fell silent. Then Robert Whitehank shook his head. {No way in the hell. You look half dead already. We do that, you won’t be able to run.}

“If you don’t do it, I won’t be able to run either.”

“Huh?” Dipper’s voice was rapidly climbing in pitch.

Elaine tried distraughtly to reason with Norman. {You know how much it takes out of you! And if we all do it—}

“I don’t _care_! Do it!”

“_Do it_!” Mabel chorused.

“What’re we even doing?!” Dipper shrilled.

Grandmother Chiu shot a look at Elaine. {Norman get this from you, I can ter-oo.}

{Normy, _please_!} Elaine said, her tone giving way to anger. {This is what Detoby wants! You’re wasting time he’s buying right now!}

**CATCH** **YOU**

“Lash you!” the Jokergeist shouted back. Honk! Honk! Hon—The Slender Man landed a flailing blow that sent Detoby reeling!

{_Please_!} Elaine begged.

But Norman, though every instinct screamed to run, stood his ground.

It was Grandmother Chiu who broke the intergenerational stalemate. {Americans arr _tawk_-oo! You tawk and tawk; never do _anything_-oo!} And she passed into Norman without another word.

A second later, Norman’s knees buckled, and both Dipper and Mabel caught him before he fell. Grandmother Chiu, gleaming like a royal dragon in the eyes of the living and the dead, rose above them! Her eyes blazed wrathfully as she looked upon the approaching Slender Man! From her mouth poured a flaming torrent of impenetrable Korean words (87% of which were filthy, _filthy_ expletives—the phrase “gae seki” featured prominently among them) as she soared at it! She landed a kick to its midsection that would have made Chuck Norris nod sagaciously in approval, then let loose such a volley of punches, knifehands, backfists, elbow strikes, and assorted kicks that it could not move one step forward!

**NO FAIR**

Norman gulped down air, and then blurted out, “C’mon! Next one! _Go_!”

As it happened, both Dipper and Robert Whitehawk in that instant muttered the same thing. “This is such a bad idea . . .”

Bertram Pincus, however, grinned giddily. {You know, I’ve always wanted to be an _action hero_. All I need is the right line . . .}

“_Today_, Doctor Pincus!”

{Right!} And the dentist passed into the boy Medium as well, to rise above him a second later. With a mouth mirror in one hand and a sickle probe in the other (and the manic grin of those who have already stared death in the face and recommended he floss more often), he appeared more terrifying to all onlookers (with the exception of Mabel) than all the demons of Hell combined! “Um . . . Well . . . Oh, yes! It’s time to administer some local NOVAPAIN! _Hahahahahaha_!”

Though his hands and feet were so tingly he could barely feel Dipper and Mabel holding him up, Norman stared directly at Robert Whitehawk. “Your t-turn . . .”

{Ecelkcelk, you can’t—}

“Or I’ll n-_never_ speak to you again.”

Pursing his lips, the Fisherghost said, {Fine. But after me, that’s _it_. You _run_.}

“But Grandma—”

{I’m going with you, Normy,} Elaine cut in. {In case that _thing_ gets past the others. If that happens, then . . . then we’ll do what needs to be done.}

Behind them, Bertram Pincus fretted for an opening while Detoby and Grandmother Chiu continued their onslaught against the Slender Man. But with each second, the glow of their borrowed life energy diminished. What’s more, they were sustaining blows—blows which seemed to drain away that precious life energy. There was not much time left before they’d no longer be able to manifest . . .

Norman nodded dizzily. “Alright. _Now do it_!”

As Robert Whitehawk rose up in luminous visibility, Norman almost blacked out entirely. This was why the Fisherghost bent over the two siblings with a fire in his whole soul and ordered, “Go. _Now_.”

“Y-yessir!” Dipper stammered, leading the other two away. They finally followed.

{Good luck!} Elaine shouted back to her compatriots.

With that, Robert Whitehawk turned and hurled himself back to help the others. “What are you waiting for, Mister Dentist?!” he bellowed as he tackled the Slender Man.

“What do you expect me to do?! It has _no mouth_! I have no power over it!”

“Then rip it a new one!”

“R.I.P. it a new one!” Honk! Honk! Honk!

“You tawk and tawk! Ress tawking; more hitting-oo!”

**STOP** **IT**

Half-leading and half-dragging his drained best friend and sister, Dipper stared fixedly ahead. “There’s the fence . . . Make it past the fence . . . Everything’ll be fine if we make it past the fence . . . Jeez, Mabel, you weigh a ton with that stupid sweater!”

{You can do it, Normy!} Elaine urged her grandson, for he looked so ragged. {Keep going!}

And then the kids were there, squeezing through the bars! But the second they slipped beyond the cemetery, a shriek like worlds being ripped asunder stabbed at their brains!

**STOP IT**

{_Run, Normy_! _Run_!} Elaine cried out.

**STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT**

With such a shriek ringing in their brains, there was nothing else the kids could do; clinging to one another, they panicked and fled breathlessly through the woods. It was perhaps a miracle that they could still hold it together enough to hold on to one another.

**STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT**

The Slender Man was convulsing as it shrieked, its long limbs flailing like whips in all directions! Behind it, the nearest door (the entry to the mausoleum) swung slowly open! A dazzling but cold light, like a sustained bolt of lightning—pure energy that cares not if it kills—spilled out to illuminate the creature and the manifesting ghosts! And then, with one sudden sweep, the Slender Man ensnared all four of them in its impossibly thin, impossibly long arms!

“Kali’s canines!”

**LONELINESS**

The door slammed shut, and the light was extinguished in one swift sweep. The Slender Man had disappeared into it. And so had the four manifesting ghosts . . .

****

“But there was no voice,” Esmerelsa protested as Stan dug through his glove compartment for a flashlight. “I’d hear it too, no? And I heard _nothing_, mi eStanford.”

“Well, _I_ did.”

“So did I, Mister Pines!” Soos interjected worriedly, though he still had his blindfold on and his accordion in his arms. “It was Norman. Dipper’s new friend. The kid you called ‘Paintbrush’.”

“And I’m sorry to cut our evening short, Esmerelsa—really sorry—but I’ve gotta look for the kid. Make sure he’s alright. You know that kids have been disappearing in town this week, right?”

She blanched. “Dios mio! No, I did not know that. Pobres chicitos . . .”

“Right. And this one’s a friend of my great-nephew. And I think he and his sister were with him this afternoon. Maybe . . . they’re with him now . . .” Stan added shakily. “I am _not_ letting _anything_ happen to those three!”

“Do you want me to help look, Mister Pines?” Soos volunteered.

“No, you stay here with Esmerelsa. Keep her safe.”

“Mi eStanford, that is muy estupido. Take him with you to help look.”

“And what about you? Who’ll keep you safe?” he challenged her.

With a flourish, she produced a sidearm. “eSay ‘hola’ to my little amigo.”

“What the—” Stan gaped, looking at her fairly tight dress. “Where were you even hiding that?!”

“El Cartel is esearching for me, mi eStanford; I don’t go to the _bathroom_ without taking this.”

“But . . . but where? And how?”

She smiled mysteriously. It was probably the sexiest thing Stan had seen in real life in years.

So, capitulating with a sigh, he said to her, “Alright. But go back to your hotel. Please? For me?” Then turning to his handyman, he ordered, “You’re coming with me after all, Soos.”

“Can I take off this blindfold first?”

“Not yet.” Stan then waited until Esmerelsa was driving away—blowing him a kiss as she did—before he gruffly gave his permission. “Now you can.”

The two men hadn’t even entered the woods, however, before they heard the sounds of people running blindly towards them through the trees and undergrowth. Then they heard frightened voices. Children’s voices.

“Is it . . . coming after us?”

“I don’t . . . think so . . .”

“Don’t stop, Norman . . . We’re almost home . . .”

“Kids?!” Stan shouted. “Is that you?!”

“G-Grucnle Stan?!” Mabel called back tremulously. “Guys, it’s Gruncle Stan!”

“Gruncle Stan!” Dipper cried out.

An instant later, the three kids stumbled out of the woods together. Seeing Stan, they threw themselves at him in tearful relief and buried their faces in his suit. Even Norman. For a moment, they weren’t young teens trying to prove themselves as strong, competent individuals to the world; they were just frightened children again, and only too happy to find a grownup who could protect them from the scary, bad things.

“Whoa, kids . . . It’s okay, kids. It’s okay,” Stan said soothingly. “But what’re you all doing out here in the woods on a foggy night like this? And what’s got you so scared?”

“The S-Slender Man . . .” Dipper gasped wearily. “Gotta get away from him . . .”

“Who’s that, dudes?” Soos asked.

“I wanna go home . . .” Mabel just whimpered.

“Okay, Mabel Syrup. Okay,” Stan replied, gently patting her head. “We’re going home now.”

“But who’s the slender guy? Why’d you need to get away from him?” Soos pressed on curiously.

“It’s the m-monster . . . in the f-fog!” Norman stammered weakly. “The one t-taking . . . all the k-kids . . . Don’t let it get us!”

With a jolt, Soos straightened up to scan the woods. But he saw nothing; the trees and the fog formed too dense a barrier.

“Nothing’s gonna get you kids,” Stan affirmed reassuringly. “We can talk more once we’re back at the Shack. C’mon, everybody. Into my car. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay now.”

During the short drive back, the kids were mostly silent. They were too exhausted for speech now that the adrenaline of mind-shattering terror had abated, and both the old man and the handyman instinctively (though reluctantly) respected that. However, Dipper and Mabel did each ask one question.

“What smells so good?” Dipper asked.

“Some food I bought,” Stan answered ambiguously. “There’re some leftovers. You kids can eat it when we get back. And yes, Soos, you can have some, too.”

A minute later, Mabel asked, “Why are you guys dressed so strange?”

“Because,” Stan answered quickly, before Soos could even utter a syllable. “We were eating out. Together. To celebrate. Soos’s . . . anniversary. At the Mystery Shack. Isn’t that right?” he asked in the tone of voice that implied there would be _consequences_ if it wasn’t. _Nostril-related_ consequences.

“Y-yessir, Mister Pines. Absolutely right.”

And then they were all silent until they had pulled into the Shack’s parking lot.

Once food was laid in front of them, the kids ate ravenously. Especially Norman. Elaine even had to remind him, {Slow down and breathe a little, Normy; the food’s not going anywhere.} And gradually, the kids ceased to startle at every little sound. They relaxed a little. Such is the effect of a warm kitchen and tasty food in large quantities.

Stan waited until that time to inquire, “So what is this about a ‘fog monster’?”

“The Slender Man,” Mabel answered as she finally let Waddles climb up into her lap. She clung to the pig as she wearily explained, “It’s basically a monster that moves in the fog.”

“It’s really tall and thin—like, as tall and thin as a streetlamp—with no face,” Dipper added. “It wears a black suit, and its skin is pale white. And it has _no_ _face_,” he repeated emphatically.

Norman piped up timidly, “It’s what’s been st-stealing away k-kids.”

“Uh huh . . . And how does it do that, exactly?”

Mabel supplied the answer to that one. “It grabs them, and then disappears completely.”

“Without a trace, right? No footprints, fingerprints, or anything?” Stan surmised, mildly amused in spite of himself.

Mabel’s grip on her pet tightened. “Yes!”

“And how does it do _that_, exactly?”

Norman opened his mouth to respond, but then he felt Dipper nudge him under the table. When he looked at Dipper questioningly, Dipper laid a hand on his vest (where the journal was kept) and shook his head ever so slightly—intimating Norman was still bound to keep the secret he had sworn. Reluctantly, Norman closed his mouth again.

Elaine looked at her grandson curiously. {Normy? What aren’t you saying?}

“Well?” Stan asked.

Finally, Dipper conceded, “We’re not sure . . . just yet.”

“Uh huh. And no one ever witnesses the disappearances, am I right?”

“Well . . . Not exactly, no . . .”

Reasoning with them now, Stan asked, “Kids, don’t you think someone would have noticed a demonic streetlamp walking around and stealing kids?” Continuing this line of thought, he then asked, “And why now? Where’d this monster come from, and why’s it taking children now? What does it want with them? Why’d it just appear all of a sudden?”

Mabel hung her head in shame. She seemed on the verge of confessing everything, but Dipper intervened before she could divulge a single word. “We can’t tell you that . . . I mean, we don’t know for sure what it wants.”

“Uh huh. So you don’t know how it steals away the kids without leaving a trace, how no one ever sees it moving around, where it came from, or what it wants . . . but you know it’s responsible.”

“It chased us,” Dipper declared flatly.

“You prob’ly just imagined it in the fog. Fog does that to people,” Stan replied coaxingly.

The kids offered him a stony silence. Such was the only response their pride (and their conspiracy to keep the journal a secret) would allow.

Lightly—too lightly—Stand probed, “You wanna tell me what all three of you were doing out in the first place? On a night like this _and_ after all the disappearances? Doesn’t seem very bright . . .”

Dipper crossed his arms defiantly. “We were _investigating_ the disappearances.”

“And we know who . . . who’s responsible,” Mabel added hoarsely.

“The Slender Man,” Dipper cut in, looking pointedly at his sister.

Soos ventured back into the conversation. “And it was after you dudes?

“Y-yeah . . .” Norman answered quietly.

“So what do we do? Is it still after you? How do we keep it away?” Soos asked anxiously.

“It moves in the fog and the dark,” Dipper stated quickly, before Stan could insert anything. “What we need to do is turn on all the lights and set up those industrial fans outside the main doors.”

“I’m on it, dudes.”

“No, you’re not,” Stan interrupted firmly. Then, placatingly, he continued, “Look, kids, I’m not saying that it _isn’t_ a monster abducting children. But it’s prob’ly a _human_ monster doing it. And locked doors and windows keep those away better than racking up my electric bills. _No_ _buts_,” he preempted his great-nephew’s objection. “Besides, fog can’t get in through a locked door or window either.”

Dipper sulked to himself, but Mabel pointed out, “He does kinda have a point . . .”

Soos cleared his throat nervously before suggesting, “I can stay the night down here if it makes everyone feel better.”

“It would!” Mabel said to her gruncle, her eyes pleading like only a teenage girl’s can.

Stan sighed longsufferingly. “Fine. But he’s off the clock for sleepovers.”

“And, um . . . C-could I stay the n-night, too?” Norman asked, surprising even himself.

“Er . . .” Stan looked to his wards, who both nodded vigorously. “Okay. If your parents agree.”

{Right. Your family _is_ worried sick about you,} Elaine mentioned.

“They are?”

“They are what?” Stan asked bemusedly.

“Uh . . . Okay with me staying, I bet,” Norman responded lamely. “I’ll j-just, y’know, call them.”

While Norman tried to make the call, Stan rose gruffly. “C’mon then, Soos; we’d best set you up in the front room with some bedding and . . . such like . . .”

“Would it make the kids feel better, you think, if I maybe slept in front of the stairs?”

“Hey, if you wanna sleep on a hardwood floor, then be my guest.”

“I, um, I think I will do that. For them,” Soos declared.

“Whatever. If anything tries to come through the door, just play your accordion at it.”

“You think that will scare it away, Mister Pines?”

“It would scare me the heck away. But even if it doesn’t, I’ll come running with a gun. I’ll either shoot whatever’s got the kids so spooked, or shoot the accordion. Win-win, I figure.”

Back at the table, Norman resignedly laid down his phone. “Not going through . . .”

Dipper gestured to the counter, saying, “Try the landline, maybe?”

Eyeing the rotary phone on the kitchen counter, Norman asked skeptically, “That thing is an actual phone? I figured it was some sort of attraction here.”

“Why would we keep attractions in our kitchen?” Mabel retorted. “We don’t want filthy tourists in here, getting their filthy tourist germs all over our foodstuffs.”

{Fair enough,} Elaine commented. {Can’t say I’d like having strangers in my kitchen, either.}

Nodding absently, Norman twirled his home phone number into the machine.

A second later, however, a feminine voice decreed in his ear, “The phone you have used to dial was an antique thirty years ago. Please join the rest of us in the twenty-first century to make your call, preferably with a phone that has internet capabilities. Ask your kids for more information. Thank you.”

Norman stared at the phone in bewilderment.

“Oh, right. Sorry, man,” Dipper laughed sheepishly. “We set that up a while ago on the houseline to try and make Gruncle Stan buy some real phones.”

“Hasn’t worked, though,” Mabel conceded with mild irritation. “He hardly ever calls anyone, and outside calls come through just fine.”

“You have to push—or spin or whatever—the 1 first to make an outgoing call. Sorry about that.”

{I’m going to stand for solidarity with my generation by pointing out that this phone is still perfectly serviceable,} Elaine stated, but only on principle.

“You would say that . . .” Norman muttered (but not unfondly) as he made the call home.

Before the phone could ring a second time, Courtney’s voice picked up. She sounded frantic. “Norman?! Norman, is that you?!”

“Y-yeah, it’s me—”

“Oh, thank god!” she sighed in relief. And then, in response to Sandra’s equally frantic question, she replied, “Yeah, it’s him . . . I don’t know, Mom. Just a sec—Norman, are you alright?”

“Wha—yeah, f-fine,” Norman stammered in surprise. “Why would you think I wasn’t?”

“Because like . . .” Courtney swallowed thickly. “We all thought we heard you yell, and . . . _screaming_ for help,” she seemed to choke up slightly. “It just . . . We were like _super_ worried, okay? Where are you now?”

“With my friends at the Mystery Shack.”

“The what?”

“It’s . . . um . . .” Norman stopped short, unsure how to describe the nigh indescribable place. “On the outskirts of town and kinda . . . a museum of supernatural and paranormal stuff? My friends Dipper and Mabel live here,” he felt the need to explain. “Their uncle runs it.”

Both twins mouthed, “Great-uncle.”

“Okay, got it,” Courtney said determinedly. “Soon as we get a hold of Dad, we’ll come get you.”

“Dad’s not there?”

“He went out looking for you,” Courtney explained. “That’s how, like, shook up he was. How shook up _we_ were. He told us to get out the _sluggers_, even.”

Taken aback, Norman faltered, “Well . . . I r-really am fine. Actually, I was k-kinda hoping I could spend the night over here?”

“But . . . Wait a sec. You didn’t like . . . _see a_ _moose_ today, did you?” she asked suspiciously.

Sighing in exasperation, Norman retorted, “No, Courtney, I did _not_ see a moose today.”

From the table, both Mabel and Dipper looked over curiously. Even Waddles looked over.

“You’re sure?” Courtney persisted. “There’ve like been _a lot_ around lately, and—”

“Courtney, no one is holding me against my will,” Norman interrupted her flatly.

Mabel snorted, “Heh! What?”

His cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment, Norman tried to ignore the twins behind him. “I’m _really_ with my new friends,” he emphatically informed his sister. “And I’d like to sl-sleepover.”

“And nothing . . . like, _weird_ has happened to you today?”

“J-just been hanging out with my friends,” Norman said, not technically lying.

{Normy dear, why aren’t you telling her the truth?} Elaine asked disapprovingly.

“So . . . c-can I stay the night?”

{Normy . . .}

A beat of muffled conversation between his sister and his mother followed on the other end. Then Courtney (somewhat reluctantly, by the sound of her voice) answered, “Mom says it’s okay . . . Wants you to have fun making new friends and such . . . Just, y’know, _be_ _careful_. We’ll let Dad know. And run interference with him.”

“Okay. Thanks, Courtney.”

“Yeah . . . Love you.”

“You too,” Norman replied quietly before hanging up.

Mabel cleared her throat innocently. “Sssoooooo . . . What was that about a _moose_?”

“And being held against your will?” Dipper added with a smirk.

Flushing again, Norman stammered, “Oh, that’s j-just a . . . a s-safety question Courtney set up between us. What with all the kids disappearing, y’know. If s-someone is, like, holding us against our will or torturing us or whatever, we’re supposed to say we saw a m-moose. Silly, right?”

Mabel exchanged a glance with Dipper. A small smile passed between them.

“What’s up?” Norman asked bemusedly.

“Oh, nothing . . .” Dipper said with a barely suppressed grin. “You can stay, then?”

“Yeah,” Norman answered, ignoring the disappointed way his grandmother shook her head. “Th-though, I don’t have clothes or a t-toothbrush or anything.”

Mabel replied breezily, “I’m sure you won’t have any objection to borrowing Dipper’s.”

“W-what?” Norman squeaked.

“His bed clothes, at least,” she continued merrily along her own train of thought. “And we can probably find a spare toothbrush somewhere for you.”

“Oh, r-right.”

{They’re kidding themselves if they think shorty’s cloths are going to fit you,} Elaine observed. {Not that you’ll object too much, I reckon.}

Her grandson blushed slightly, but refrained from saying anything.

Leading the way upstairs, Dipper affirmed, “But first, we need to plan. Then we need to keep watch—in case that Slender Man tries to come back tonight. Let’s get ourselves situated comfortably, since we might be up all night.”

****

While chilling at Nate’s house with the rest of the crew (the guys were currently seeing how high they could bounce a basketball off of Thompson’s butt, and Tambry was recording the experiment . . . presumably for posterity, but at least for posterior), Wendy had a sudden moment of doubt.

“Wait . . . Did I remind Stan he promised me this weekend off for making that website?”

No answer came from watching the guys take turns hurling the basketball at Thompson’s butt.

“Meh . . . I’m sure it won’t be a problem . . .”

Then the basketball actually bounced all the way up to the ceiling, and everybody cheered, “THOMPSON! THOMPSON! THOMPSON!”

****

Once the kids stood in the twins’ bedroom—the first time all three were there together since the fateful argument five days ago—Norman said apologetically, “S-so, um, Grandma’s probably right; I’m thinking m-maybe Dipper’s clothes won’t fit me. B-because I’m kinda . . . um . . . freakishly tall?”

Without looking back, the behatted boy dehatted himself, then began tugging his mattress off his own bed. “We’ll make it work.”

Across from him, Mabel was tugging hers off her own bed. “Yeah, we’ll think of something. Besides, you’re not freakishly tall; Dipper’s freakishly short.”

“We’re the same height,” her brother retorted.

“Girls are shorter than boys on average, so what does that say about you? Also, I’m totally taller than you, Dipping Sauce.”

“Only in the Communist People’s Republic of Canada.”

Floating over her grandson’s shoulder, Elaine wondered aloud, {What’re they doing?}

But no sooner were the mattresses on the floor than the twins were pushing them together—making one large square of mattress from two rectangles. In answer to the two quizzical looks directed at them (though they could only see one of them), Dipper explained, “We always do this when we have a mutual friend sleepover. Now we’ve all got somewhere to sit together.”

“Oh, nice. Good idea.”

“Yep,” Dipper concurred, flopping down. “Now let’s get to planning.”

{Not until you all brush your teeth.}

“_Graaandmaaa_!” Norman protested.

Elaine crossed her spectral arms implacably. {No buts, except all of yours into the bathroom to practice good oral hygiene right this minute.}

Sighing, the boy Medium transmitted to the others, “Grandma says we gotta brush first.”

{And floss!}

“And floss.”

“Heh. Can’t floss with braces, suckers,” Mabel declared smugly. “Yep, a constant, bone-deep ache as my teeth are forcibly pressured by wires, brackets, and industrial glue (over the course of years) to conform to society’s unrealistic standard of what constitutes a beautiful smile is a small price to pay for not having to floss every night.”

“Don’t forget a heightened risk of gingivitis,” her brother added.

“Totally worth it!”

Norman actually chuckled. “Heh. Talk like th-that would make Dr. Pincus spin _outside_ of his . . .” Then he stopped, his eyes widening in realization. “They’re not back yet . . .”

“Who isn’t?”

“The ghosts! Detoby and the rest! They haven’t caught up with us yet! And it’s been f-forever! We—we ate and talked and . . . How could I forget about them?! What kinda friend am I?!”

Worried, Dipper looked around the room—as if they might be hiding in the corners or behind the attic junk. As if he would have been able to see them if they had. “They’re really not back?”

“No! Grandma, d-did you see—”

{After that flash of light . . . I didn’t see anything, Normy. That Slender Man was just gone . . . and so were the others,} Elaine stated soberly.

“B-but . . . how? They were _ghosts_! You can’t kidnap ghosts!”

{Yes, but . . . they all were physical at the time. They had your borrowed energy, remember? Which made it so they could be touched . . . or grabbed. And pulled through a door.}

The Medium shook his head. “N-no . . . No, they’ve gotta be around their anchors right now.”

{Normy, dear, I saw—}

“They g-_gotta_ be, Grandma!”

Transparent eyes looked into pleading blue ones for a long moment. Eventually, Elaine sighed. {Will you promise to stay here while I go look—promise not to run off into anymore danger?}

“Yeah. Well . . . assuming d-danger doesn’t come here,” her grandson added nervously. “Maybe not even then . . . I am . . . so tired right now . . .”

Elaine sighed again. {Not exactly making me feel confident in this decision . . . Where are their—what are they called?—anchors?}

The Medium told her (Doctor Pincus’ was in The Sweet Tooth shop near the school building, Grandmother Chiu’s was in the Chiu residence on the other side of that little park near their house, Robert Whitehawk’s was along the river flowing from the lake, and Detoby’s . . . his was perhaps in the office of the Gravity Falls Gossiper or a bar that did comedy stand-up on Fridays), then thanked her before she glided out through the wall. He then took a moment to catch the twins up to speed on what they hadn’t heard.

Dipper bit his lip. “This . . . is an unsettling development.”

“Bro-Bro, that’s an understatement-understatement,” his sister concurred. “If it can take ghosts, too, what _can’t_ it take?”

“True . . .”

“But I don’t think it took them to . . . wherever it took the other kids on purpose,” Mabel stated. “I think it was really coming after y—us. Coming after _us_. Which is all my f—”

Her brother raised an objectionary finger.

She stopped. She cleared her throat and swiped at her eyes. She started over, “Coming after us. Which is . . . something we can fix. Anyway the ghosts then got in the way and . . . Basically, I think the Slender Man made a mistake tonight.”

“Not finishing the job when it had the chance,” Dipper said like Batman.

“That too. But I dunno . . . Maybe it ran out of time or temper, but either way it was an accident it took the ghosts. It’s still coming for us, but maybe the ghosts bought us more time than we thought.”

Anxious, Norman asked, “W-what do you mean?”

“It always abducted one . . . er . . . victim per night, right?”

Her brother shrugged. “As far as we know.”

“And never ghosts before?”

Her brother repeated, “As far as we know . . . You hear anything about missing ghosts, Norm?”

“N-no, but . . . with everyone staying close to home or their anchors because of the c-cursed fog, it’d be hard to tell if anyone was missing or not.”

Mabel spread her arms wide, “So don’t you think that four ghosts at once would count for as much as a normal person? Don’t you think that would buy us until tomorrow night, at least, to . . . figure things out?”

Thoughtfully, Dipper mused, “And not just normal ghosts, but ghosts that were, like, manifesting with someone else’s spiritual energy mojo stuff . . .”

“And not just anybody’s, but a psychic’s.”

“N-not a psychic,” Norman protested, wearily leaning against the wall.

“Then what are you?” Mabel retorted. “What else besides a psychic can talk to ghosts and, like, glow green and float in trouble and summon spirits to, like, do their bidding?”

“What?” Norman repeated disbelievingly. “I can’t do that.”

Crossing her wool-knitted arms across her chest, the girl asserted, “I _saw_ you do all that. Tonight. It was, like—vwoom!—and all the ghosts were there to help you. Like out of final fantasy.”

Shaking his spikey head, the boy Medium mumbled, “Too tired t’deal with this . . .”

“Furthermore,” Mabel continued, as though in a formal debate, “can I just say ‘HOLY GLITTER RAINBOW BOMBS!’?”

Both boys jumped at her sudden exclamation.

“DO YOU REALIZE, DIPPER THAT WE SAW A REAL, LIVE, ACTUAL GHOST?! FOUR OF THEM?! NORMAN REALLY IS A PSYCHIC MEDIUM! HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH ALL ALONG!”

“Uh . . . Yeah. I knew that,” her brother pointe out longsufferingly.

“AND SO DID I, BUT . . . FANCY MOSES!”

Norman covered his ears. “C-can you stop yelling, p-please? Can’t t-take it right now . . .”

“Right. Right. Sorry,” she apologized. “It’s just . . . Yeah, I believed you; you convinced me and everything this afternoon. But actually seeing proof of it—seeing four ghosts in front of you? That was just . . . wow is all.”

“Yeah, it was. But with regards to what you suggested, Sis-Sis, it really depends on what the Slender Man wants with its victims. Four ghosts might not be enough for one night.”

“Y-you guys are assuming it g-got them—_really_ got them . . .” Norman protested half-heartedly. “They could still reappear back at their anchors. They could still be fine.”

Looking up compassionately, his friend offered, “I get what you’re saying, man, but . . . we gotta be realistic about this. I don’t . . . I don’t think your grandma’s gonna find them.”

Norman had no answer; he just hung his head.

“Not _tonight_, at least,” Mabel interjected with forced brightness. “But _we_ will tomorrow, right? When we defeat the Slender Man and save everyone, right? Because that’s what the Mystery Kids do!”

“Exactly! Exactly!” Dipper chorused.

“So . . . so let’s get to planning! Right, Bro-Bro?”

“Right! But, first, as Mystery Kids group leader—”

“Why do you get to be group leader?” she challenged him.

“Because of my obvious maturity and charisma. Now shut your stink face,” Dipper retorted as he rose and moved to the door. “As I was saying, as group leader, I recognize that any effective planning tonight is going to first require a boost in group morale. And I know just what will accomplish that.”

“W-what?” Norman asked.

Dipper locked the door. Then he turned slowly back around. He was grinning evilly at his friend. “Some moose watching . . .”

“Oh! Yeeesssss . . .” Mabel faced the Medium and grinned evilly, too. “Moose watching . . .”

“Uh . . .” Norman eyed the two of them uneasily, then edged away

****

Red in the face from over a solid hour of hustling and yelling around the neighborhood, Perry shuffled up to the front door only to find it bolted. He began to swear, but then caught himself. “Right, of course they locked it after me . . .” Instead, he pounded on it and called, “Sandra! Courtney! It’s me! Any word?! I haven’t found him! Has he come—”

An instant later, the door burst open and Sandra flew out to wrap her arms around her husband’s neck (the only part of him she could fully get her arms around). “He’s safe!” she said in a rush. “He’s safe! We know where he is, and he’s safe!”

Perry’s relief was immediate and evident. The tension left his shoulders like air escaping from a balloon; he sagged into his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist, and just breathed for a moment. Though he said no words, every part of his being palpably expressed the idea, “Thank goodness . . . Thank goodness . . .”

Courtney joined them both at the door a second later. “Daddy, did you hear?! Norm’s safe!”

With a deep breath, he reinflated back into his take-charge role as father during a crisis. “Yeah, Pinkie, I heard. Where . . . where is he?”

“He was at his friend’s house this whole time,” Sandra answered placatingly.

“What? But I . . . I told them they had to _stay_ _here_! So that they’d be _safe_!”

“They _were_ safe, honey,” his wife assured him.

Indignantly, Perry contended, “But they _promised_ they would stay here! So that something like this wouldn’t happen! Gah! After all he put us through tonight—all the panic—he is in _so_ _much_ _trouble_!”

Electing to be strategic, Sandra coaxed him, “Honey, come inside. Dinner’s ready, and we can talk about this while we eat.”

“But he—”

“I made some Sloppy Joes. With actual hamburger, not minced vegetables. And brownies.”

Blindsided, her husband stopped in mid-rant. “Really? You made _real_ food?”

“I figured we could use some comfort after all the stress of tonight.”

“We don’t want it to get cold,” Courtney added helpfully (in blindsiding him).

“Okay, but . . . but we are not done talking about this,” Perry stated with finality.

“That’s right, honey, that’s right.”

“We’re sure he’s at his friend’s house? Absolutely sure?”

Courtney cut in, “Yeah, Dad. I talked with him myself. Used the safety phrase and everything.”

“Well . . . okay then. Let’s sit down and talk.”

****

From above, there was a sound of scuffling and muffled shrieks. An ongoing sound. It drew Stan from the kitchen—a can of Diet Pitt Cola in his hand—and Soos from the living room television. It drew them to the foot of the stairs. Then there was the sound of a door bursting open, and feet pounding down the darkened hall. More scuffling and shrieks. Then silence.

“D-dudes?” Soos called up.

His face pale and sweaty, Norman crawled out of the darkness at the top of the stairs.

Above him, two more pale faces emerged from the darkness. The twins. Grinning evilly.

“There’s no escaping the tickle war,” Dipper said.

“And you are a prisoner of it,” Mabel said.

Norman looked pleadingly down at Stan and Soos. He was too weary from everything that night to defend himself; they were his only hope. He begged, “H-help . . . me . . .”

The twins each seized a foot and pulled him back. But Norman clung to the highest stair, to the banister, to the carpet, to whatever he could reach. “No . . . _Please_ . . . No more . . . _Mercy_ . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry. There will be no more mercy,” Mabel said.

“And there will be one more question,” Dipper said. “Did you see a moose today?”

“YES!” Norman shouted aloud. “YES, I AM CURRENTLY SEEING TWO MOOSES!”

“That’s not the correct plural form,” Dipper said.

“But you’ll have time to learn it,” Mabel said.

“Because we have ways of making you talk grammatically,” they both said as one.

Norman lost his grip, and was dragged away. He vanished into the darkness; only his shriek, “NOOOO-HO-HO-HA-HEHehehehehe . . .” escaped it.

Then there was a sound of the attic bedroom door being slammed shut, and muffled shrieks.

Stan and Soos exchanged a look. Stan cracked open his drink. He took a sip. He walked back into the kitchen without another word. Soos returned to the couch in living room, but couldn’t quite tune out the shrieks from above. He shuddered at the sound of them. “Terrible fate, being taken alive during the tickle war . . .”

****

{Mister, um, White . . . hawk? I believe that was it. Mister Whitehawk?} Elaine called down Inertia River. {Anyone here by that name? Is there . . . anyone here at all?}

There was no answer.

She looked back over the lake uncertainly, but saw only a short stretch of open water before even the immensity of the lake was consumed by the fog. No one else (living or dead) was visible here, nor had been during her circuit of the lake.

{He said Whitehawk’s haunt was along the _river_ flowing _from_ the lake, and this is all I’ve found flowing _out_ of it,} Elaine reasoned aloud. {So it’s got to be this . . . Though it’s not exactly the place a girl would want to go alone on a night like this . . .}

To her eye, the scene—all murky waters, bare rocks, skeletal trees, and sinister vapors—resembled one of her grandson’s scary movies; she half-expected a masked behemoth with a chainsaw or a rusty scythe or a portable wood chipper to step out from behind one of the trees.

Squaring her transparent shoulders, Elaine affirmed, {Well, I’m no _girl_. I’m a _woman_ and a _grandmother_ on a mission. Whatever’s skulking out there had better watch out for _me_.} And with that, she went rocketing along the river’s course, calling out constantly for Mister Whitehawk.

It was to no avail. Even after going three miles downstream, there was no answer.

But, then again, she hadn’t really expected there to be . . .

Retracing her path, Elaine next cut through the heart of the town to reach the kids’ school: William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School. From there, it was child’s play to locate the candy store. Drifting through the wall, she then called out, {Excuse me? Doctor Pincus? Are you here? This is Norman Babcock’s grandmother! Please come out! Norman’s very worried about you! Hello?!}

Likewise, there was no answer here.

It was disheartening, but . . .

Since she was so near to downtown/uptown/midtown, she sought out the local bars, looking for whichever one was hosting a comedy night. Though she found it, the turnout was unspectacular among both the living and the dead—a testament to the supernatural effects of the fog; people were choosing to remain home rather than to attend one of the town’s few events that could qualify as “night life”. At any rate, Detoby was clearly not among the few patrons there, and she left before any of the ghosts could question her about the earlier call for help they had all heard from the boy Medium.

Detoby was not at the newspaper, either. Only an obvious descendant, who was reciting poetry to a cardboard cutout of an attractive Latina reporter.

{Maybe . . . Maybe ol’ fish face decided to head back to our house?} Elaine actually hoped.

En route, she elected to take a moment to check (however futile the gesture) if the Asian ghost she had encountered at the cemetery had perhaps returned to her own anchor—her own family home. While she admittedly didn’t know which “residence on the other side of that little park near the house” was the right one, she figured it would be fairly easy to locate; all she had to do was look in all of them until she found Asians.

As luck would have it, the Chiu residence was the first one Elaine checked. But that was the end of the good luck; her fellow grandmother was not there—not in the house nor in the garden. She didn’t answer Elaine’s repeated calls, {Missus Chiu?! Missus Chiu, are you here?!}

Yet another expected failure. Funny how expecting it did nothing to alleviate its sting . . .

When Elaine reached her own home, she found the others at dinner—a sight that almost filled her with enough indignation until she overheard their conversation.

“I’d still rather go get him now,” Perry asserted. “He should be with his family, where it’s safe—especially after that scare we all had earlier.”

“But, honey, he’s just as safe with his friend’s family as with us,” Sandra contended.

“I have my doubts about that . . . Anyone who names a kid ‘Tipper’ clearly doesn’t have their child’s best interests at heart.”

“Pretty sure it’s ‘Dipper’,” Sandra muttered.

“And, like, that isn’t even his real name,” Courtney interjected with exasperation. “It’s, like, a nickname or something.”

“Besides, like I keep telling you, what’s really important is that he’s happier there tonight,” Sandra said firmly. “Do you realize this is the first time he’s stayed over anywhere since . . . Well, since his friend Neil was killed?”

That point did resonate with the beefy man. His regard and tone softened, even if he maintained, “Still, Norman _promised_ me he’d stay here, then went off without telling any of us—they all did. There _needs_ to be consequences for that. The boy’s gotta _learn_.”

“Of course, of course . . . But this is the first real friend he’s had—”

“That isn’t a ghost,” Courtney added.

“—since Blithe Hollow. He’s excited to do stuff with somebody again. So we should cut him a little slack,” Sandra argued indulgently. “We don’t want to punish him for making friends, do we?”

“Well, _no_ . . .” Perry heaved a massive sigh. “Okay, fine. He can have his sleepover _tonight_. But he’s coming home _first_ _thing_ _in_ _the_ _morning_. And _then_ he’s grounded for the rest of the weekend. I’m putting my foot down on that, Sandra.”

Elaine gave that decision a face-palm, but then decided to leave it at that. Detoby wasn’t here, either, and that was what she had come to ascertain. Now she just wanted to return to Norman as swiftly as possible and do her all—as the last ghost looking out for him—to keep him safe. She could only kvetch about how bull-headed her son was being for grounding him, after all, if Norman was still around to be grounded in the morning.

****

The tickle war ended at a fortuitous time for both sides, as the invaders ran out of the physical resources necessary to implement it (namely, the energy to keep tickling) when the invaded ran out of the physical resources necessary to survive it (namely, the energy to not pass out from lack of oxygen due to being excessively tickled). Admittedly, its conclusion was more a cessation of hosticklies than an outright agreement of peace—an arms-and-hands-to-yourself-istice . . . for now—but wars have been ended over less. Regardless, it left all three kids flat on their backs, wasted (from laughing so long and so hard) and dead (tired from the physical exertion) . . . Such is the inevitable aftermath of a tickle war.

Norman’s sides hurt. Dipper’s right side hurt (from when Norman had accidentally kicked him). Mabel’s whole body was exhausted; she regretted not changing out of her fabulous but extremely heavy goth regalia before the tickle war broke out (way before . . . like _that morning_, while getting dressed for school, for example). And Waddles—poor Waddles, who had witnessed all of this wanton bruticklity—looked on with the vacant stare of one who has seen things of which he will never be able to speak.

But such is the nature of a tickle war. Nobody is every truly prepared for the hahahohorror . . . the hahahohorror . . .

Eventually, Dipper panted, “Well . . . as team leader . . . I think that . . . boosted morale . . . Certainly _mine_ is boosted . . .”

“_You_ . . . weren’t the one . . . being forcibly t-tickled . . .” Norman countered.

“Nope . . . Which is probably why . . . _mine_ is definitely boosted . . .”

“You are a . . . c-corrupt and self-serving team leader . . .”

“Sure I am . . . What’s your point?”

“You abuse your power . . . and your f-followers . . .”

“Technically, I only abused _one_ follower . . . Singular, _not plural_, man . . .”

Mabel snort-laughed. “He gotcha with his grammar!”

“Heh . . . True,” Norman conceded. “But . . . _not cool_, man . . . _Not c-cool_ . . .”

“I say that it _is_ cool . . . All in favor?” Dipper called for a vote, raising his own hand.

Though physically spent, his sister raised her own with a giggle. “That’s two to one, so . . . Motion carries: it is officially cool . . . thanks to democracy . . . Hooray for democracy!”

“The system works . . .” Dipper declared as smugly as any politician.

“The system is r-rigged . . . to keep a c-corrupt and self-serving leader in power . . . by appealing to the leader’s . . . corrupt and self-serving underlings . . .”

“Okay, so the system works _for me_ . . . and also Mabel . . . What’s your point?”

“You’re a d-dictator . . . presiding over a corrupted democracy . . . Oh! You’re a D-_Diptator_!”

“Hey, wait a sec!” Mabel exclaimed indignantly. “I’m nobody’s underling! Certainly not Dipper’s! If anything . . . he’s _my_ underling!”

“Wait, what? Says who?” her brother demanded. “Have people . . . been saying that? Have you heard that . . . from people?”

Norman chuckled, “Heh . . . And thus, the seeds of discontent are sown . . . among the corrupt and self-serving elite . . . Soon, they too will sprout into . . . revolution against the Diptator!”

Mabel snorted. “That sounds like a . . . a specialty sauce and fries dinner for a kids’ menu . . .”

“A sauce of _oppression_!”

“You didn’t seem to mind it earlier,” Dipper replied smugly. “Back when you were laughing.”

“Because you were h-holding me down and oppressing me with t-_tickles_!”

“Heh! Yeah . . . Good times, good times . . .”

With a supreme effort, Mabel shambled to her feet and gestured at her bezazzled finery. “Gonna change out of these now . . . Weigh a freakin’ ton . . . Take off my make-up, too . . .”

“Okay . . .” Her brother nodded, then looked over at his friend, “Guess we’d better get changed for bed now . . . Let’s see what we can find you to wear.”

Once Dipper had lurched upright, he moved to his closet. Contrary to his normally meticulous mannerisms in school or investigations, however, the closet had _not_ been obsessively organized; rather, everything (save for a select few articles on hangers) lay in a pile at the bottom. He rummaged through it for a moment, then extracted a handmade sweater (dark blue, with the Ursa Major constellation—plus a few scattered stars—across its front in sparkly white yarn and rhinestones). Mabel’s handiwork, and one of her better creations. He tossed this over to the taller boy.

Norman caught it, then looked down at it uncertainly. “Um . . . So . . . D-do I just—wha?!” Norman had looked over just in time to see his best friend (and secret crush) push down and kick off his own shorts; the shorter boy now stood (or, more accurately, bent over) right there in his underwear.

Dipper glanced up from his rummaging. “What’s up?”

Trying not to blush—trying so hard and failing—Norman squeaked, “It’s, um, n-nothing!” Then, he spun away and began tugging off his own hoodie and shirt. “J-just wondering what, er, what y-_you_ were gonna w-wear! Is all! Since this is y-your sweater!”

“Meh.” The shorter boy shrugged. “Normally, I just wear my boxers and maybe an old shirt.”

“O-oh!”

“When it’s hot, not even the shirt. Just my underwear, y’know?”

“Oh!” The taller boy couldn’t help peeking back around at that—peeking at the other boy’s legs and his . . . at his legs. Definitely _just_ his nice legs. Nothing _but_ his shapely legs, and nothing else. _At_ _all_. When he thought the other boy was glancing his way, the taller boy quickly pulled on the blue sweater; it left his wrists uncovered, and if he reached above his head, it exposed his midriff. Which was . . . less than optimal. Kind of embarrassing.

“When it’s cold, I sometimes wear socks to bed,” Dipper prattled on.

“W-what’re you looking for now, then?”

“Some clean socks for me; it’s chilly with that fog. And some clean shorts for you . . . Aha! Here we go!”

A pair of shorts was tossed to Norman and he flailed to catch them. And missed. This was also less than optimal. Also kind of embarrassing. He picked them back up, and then . . . kind of froze.

“Something the matter?”

“W-well, I c-can’t put them on if you’re gonna stand there and w-_watch_! T-turn around!”

“Jeez, man. Not like we haven’t seen this all in gym class or anything,” Dipper said with a smirk. Which was a little hypocritical, given how modest he himself tended to be while changing for gym class. Perhaps it was simply that they now stood on his turf, where it was normal for him to go without pants. Perhaps it was the select company, and that he just felt that comfortable around Norman. Or perhaps he did feel a little uncomfortable changing in front of Norman, but that he was enjoying Norman’s obvious discomfort more—enough to make it worth his own.

“W-we don’t even have gym together!” the taller boy objected.

Holding up his hands in surrender, the shorter boy turned back to rummaging through the pile for a matching pair of socks. Which, once again, had him bent over in his underwear.

With a gulp, Norman made himself turn away and shuck off his jeans . . . but in such a hurry that he had forgotten to first remove his shoes. He nearly toppled over with his pants around his ankles while trying to rectify this. Then, after finally kicking off both shoes and pants, he pulled on the shorts as quickly as possible. But unfortunately . . .

“Um . . .”

Dipper glanced back up, then snorted in disbelief. While the shorts did fit his friend, they were practically hotpants on his lanky legs; they left two long stretches of white thigh exposed for all to see.

“H-how can you wear shorts this . . . sh-short?”

“My shorts are of average length.”

“I m-might as well be wearing b-briefs!” Norman protested, red with embarrassment.

“Not my fault you’re so freakishly tall—your words, man, not mine.”

“D-don’t you have, like, some sweatpants? Or something?”

“Hmm . . . Maybe . . .” Dipper rummaged through the pile again. “I think I might have—oh, here are some socks for me!—a pair somewhere . . . do-do-dooo do dooo . . . singing the rummagin’ song . . . Ah! Here we go! Try these.”

Figuring he was already as mortified as he could get, Norman simply pushed the borrowed shorts down to his ankles (an act that actually exposed less of him than before, as his feet were now partially covered up). And then Mabel exited the bathroom in her bed shirt. “GAH!” He covered himself with hands and sweatpants, and jumped into the closet in several awkwardly connected motions.

“Uh . . .” The no-longer-goth girl looked at her brother, who shrugged in response. So she sprawled gratefully onto the mattress beside Waddles and decided to just let weird boys be weird boys. “Whatever . . .” Lying down felt too good (especially next to warm, cuddly, precious Waddles) for her to worry about any weird boy things they had been doing, anyway.

Her brother immediately decided to join her, flopping across the middle space of the combined mattress with a sigh.

A second later, Norman reemerged with the sweatpants covering (most of) his legs. His ankles were completely exposed, but he had decided he could probably live with that. After all, it was not 1895 and he was not a woman with a reputation to preserve. Though he was still a little mortified.

“Looking good in that one-of-a-kind, designer sweater,” Mabel teased.

“Looking slightly less like you work in a strip club,” Dipper added.

“Says the only person in this room who ever danced shirtless for money,” his sister pointed out.

“We. Don’t. Talk. About. That.”

“B-but maybe we _should_,” Norman joined in, sitting tightly upon the final third of mattress.

Dipper shook his head emphatically. “No, we should _not_. We _should_ talk about the plan to catch the Slender Man—and also what we’re going to do tonight in case he or it comes back.”

Mabel rolled languidly onto her back and stifled a yawn (one which her brother adopted). “I’m, like, really certain he’s not coming back tonight, guys.”

“And if he does? What’re we gonna do then?” He yawned. “Just ask him or it to come back?”

“We run to Gruncle Stan, and let him and his ten guns sort this out.”

“Ten?” Norman repeated incredulously, to which Mabel nodded. Suddenly, it struck Norman how different she looked without her mien of gothic black and white; in fact, lying on the other side of Dipper—both the twins’ faces set next to each other for easy comparison—Norman thought she looked rather pretty . . . like a slightly daintier version of Dipper. Though, of course, Dipper was cuter. “Um . . . W-what was I gonna say next?”

“Somethin’ abouthe ten guns?” the shorter boy suggested, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Oh, yeah . . . First of all: Shiatzu, that’s a lot of guns! Second of all: That makes as much sense as running to the p-police. Didn’t you s-say you wanted to go to them because they had w-weapons?”

Slowly, Dipper nodded.

“I mean, what else can we do?” Mabel asked. “Tonight _or_ tomorrow?”

“We’ll think of somethin’. We gothe . . . the journal,” Dipper listlessly reminded them.

For a moment, Norman sat in quiet contemplation. “I wish . . . I wish we could t-talk to it. See what it _really_ wants. Help it, maybe . . . That’s what I did b-before, in Blithe Hollow . . . But this thing . . . it’s like . . . like f-fear incarnate.”

“Always comes back to that why question,” Mabel stated.

“Yeah . . . I wonder if—”

Suddenly, Elaine’s spectral head poked through the wall. {Normy?! I’m back, Normy!}

“GAH! _Jeez_, Grandma!” the Medium started. “Scared the crap out of me!”

{Normy, language! There’s a young lady present . . . and a young _gentleman_.}

“Sorry, Grandma . . . Oh, G-Grandma’s back.”

Mabel dragged herself upright into a sitting position. “Yeah, I figured that . . . Any, uh, any luck? Did you find the other ghosts, Mrs. Norman’s Grandma?”

{Wow . . . She looks a lot less terrifying without the makeup, doesn’t she?} Elaine remarked. {Just like her brother, but . . . a girl.}

With dread in his eyes, the Medium asked, “Grandma? W-where are the others? Where . . . Where’s Detoby?”

Elaine sighed discontentedly. {They . . . They weren’t there, Normy dear. I couldn’t find them anywhere—I looked, but . . .}

“She didn’t find them, did she?” Mabel surmised sadly. “Your face says it all. Your expression. Downcast, like . . . yeah . . . Sorry . . .”

Still folded up tightly within himself, the taller boy ran a hand through his impossibly vertical hair. “They’re g-gone . . . They came to help, and . . . now they’re g-gone . . .”

{I’m sorry, Normy dear,} Elaine whispered.

“Not _your_ fault . . .” her grandson replied perfunctorily. “It’s . . . Well, it’s not y-_yours_ . . .”

She bit her intangible lip, then declared, {Normy, I’m going to go outside and keep watch, okay? Going to circle this place all through the night. And if I see something, I’ll come scream bloody murder to wake you up, okay? But promise you’ll get some sleep now? And promise you’ll call out if you need me? Call as loud as can. You promise?}

“S-sure . . .”

{Okay . . . Try to get some sleep, like your little friend Dipper there.}

“Hmm? Oh, wow. Look at that. He _is_ already asleep. Anyway, s-sure . . .”

{Okay, good. I love you, Normy.}

“Love you, t-too . . .”

And then, Elaine passed right back through the walls to begin her patrol.

Mabel waited a moment, to confirm that she wasn’t going to interrupt the ghost, before asking, “What’d she say, Norm-Norm?” And, when the Medium had transmitted it all, she nodded. “I think . . . that’s a good idea. I mean, Dipper here was the most gung-ho to plan and keep watch and junk, and just look at him,” she said with a gesture to her brother. “Completely asleep—”

“Wha?” the shorter boy stirred. “Mnot asleep . . . Just . . . think . . . ing . . .”

“Sssh,” Mabel shushed him. “Just lie back down.”

“But wha’d we decide to do tonight? Need th’plan—”

“Norm’s grandma is keeping watch outside for us, since she’s a ghost and can do a better job than us. And Soos and Stan are keeping a watch inside. That’s the watch plan tonight. In the morning, we’re gonna check the journal for more ideas. That’s the plan, so you can lie back down and think some more, Bro-Bro.”

Dipper relented, “Oh . . . okay . . .” He let his sister push him back down and spread a blanket up to his chest. For his part, his friend roused himself from his brooding to grab a pillow and slip it under Dipper’s head (a gesture which Dipper accepted with a drowsy “Thanks, man . . .”).

“Looks like he’s about out,” Mabel commented to the taller boy. “Guess it’s time we went to sleep with him, too.”

Norman blinked. “S-sleep . . . _with_ him? R-right. Time to . . . s-_sleep_ with him.”

One minute later, Dipper was unconscious—his body sprawled across the center of the mattress square, lying between the other two. And, for their part, they had soon surrendered in the fight against gravity. They were too physically tired _not_ to lie back on their respective thirds. But that didn’t mean that sleep came easily for them.

At first, Norman was too electrified by the inconceivable position in which he found himself. Could it _really_ be possible that . . . that he was lying _in_ _bed_ . . . _with_ _Dipper_? That he was going _to_ _sleep_ _with_ Dipper? Okay, granted, there was _sleeping_ with someone and there was sleeping _with_ someone, but both had a person in close and rather intimate proximity to someone (Dipper was in his _underwear_ right now—his _fecund_ underwear—and _right_ _beside_ Norman); and, also granted, Norman wasn’t actually _sleeping_ while thinking this nor was he _likely_ to sleep all that much that night (no matter how exhausted) because of his general insomnia . . . But that just meant he would actually be awake to fully appreciate that he was now lying beside Dipper (and _would_ be sleeping with him if could ever actually just sleep)!

Besides the mere notion—the mere, _electrifying_ notion—of his position and Dipper’s position and the combination this made to create _their shared_ _position_ in relation to each other, sleep was kept at bay from Norman by the engrossing sight of Dipper’s face so close to his own. It was just right there, close enough to touch without even reaching out . . . And how could he not stare at it? It was so . . . strangely perfect . . . And so different from how it normally looked, too: peaceful . . . carefree . . . unfocused . . . restful . . . This was a relaxed Dipper. A Dipper that wasn’t haunted or tense or driven, always driven, further onward. A Dipper with his mouth hanging open and a bit of drool at the corner—gross, yet cute, too. Always cute. Always so fricative cute, even when he was gross. Strangely perfect . . . strangely engrossing . . .

And his hand . . . There was Dipper’s open hand between them, as if extending towards Norman. As if reaching towards him. As if already outstretched halfway for him to take. Because Norman realized that he himself could reach out and touch it . . . Could lightly touch it with just a finger at first, maybe brushing it a few times to ensure Dipper wasn’t about to wake back up . . . Then perhaps a few more . . . Maybe even caressing it? Maybe even holding it while they both lay there together in bed together sleeping together (or close enough, once insomnia was factored out)?

How could anyone sleep while thinking on that? The very thought made Norman’s heart pound so hard he worried the sound of it might disturb Dipper—might trouble the peacefulness of his sleep, thus make him fret in the face or pull back his hand. He did _not_ want that . . . Not for all the world . . .

But one can become accustomed to any constant. Even a constant electrifying charge through the mind and the body and the heart. Eventually, Norman’s thoughts wandered away from such pleasant considerations as the boy with eyes (now closed) and hair like milk chocolate. They considered malevolent sentiences that can attach pockets in reality or pocket dimensions or some other metaphor (perhaps more accurate as a conceptualization, perhaps just as inaccurate) to this reality or dimension via some simple doorway somewhere. But especially at a #13 doorway . . . talk about unlucky #13 . . . And why? All for the sake of making people disappear, if the journal was right. But why? Was it for food? For fun? For some as of yet uncomprehended vengeance? Were its victims specific targets, or random? Hadn’t Mabel said she had wished specifically for the victims in Gravity Falls to be taken? So were they dealing with some sorta wish-granting entity, like a dark genie? But why grant the wishes—why _hers_? Because she was dark (as the Grand Goth or whatever, or simply in a very dark frame of mind), and doing so would increase the amount of dark energy in the world? But why would it do that? Why? WHY? Again and again and again, it came back to that same question . . .

Maybe it really was a demon, and the only reason why was because it was evil . . . Why else would the Author of the journal call them “malevolent sentiences”? Certainly the Slender Man came off like a demon—pouring loneliness directly into the brain, shrieking about how it would take you away . . . _forever_ . . . carrying on like this was all some sorta twisted game . . . Poltergeists were ghosts, and ghosts were still just people at the end of the day, but this . . . this _thing_ didn’t seem like a person. No face, just hands and cold and fog . . .

Except for . . . Except, that is, for that face that had seemed to be pushing up from underneath its no-face . . . “Like Aggie . . . sorta . . .” the Medium mused to himself.

“What?” Mabel asked from the other side of her brother. “You say something, Norm-Norm?”

“N-no . . . Well, yes, but . . . J-just thinking aloud.”

“Ah.”

“S-sorry. Didn’t realize you were still awake, too.”

“No, it’s okay. I can’t really sleep either . . . Can’t stop thinking about . . . well . . .”

“It’s n-not your fault,” Norman asserted, but quietly so as not to wake Dipper.

“But . . . You both keep saying that—you and Dipping Sauce—but . . . _I_ opened the Cursed Door,” she stated, miserable but unshakable in her knowledge of that fact.

“Well . . . If it hadn’t been you . . . it m-might’ve been _me_,” he replied numbly.

Curious, Mabel looked in his direction. “You mean . . . Did you, like, hear it talking to you, too, before I opened it on Sunday?”

“Sorta, yeah . . . More like it was c-calling to me, maybe?”

“So . . . um . . . Why didn’t _you_ go to it?”

Norman pondered that question. He looked at the ceiling high above for his answer, but did not find it there. He raked the walls, the corners, and the furniture, but did not find his answer there either. Then his eyes came back to that face so near his own—that strangely perfect, strangely engrossing face. There was his answer . . . “B-because, um, of D-Dipper, I think. He just . . . He j-just became my friend, and I . . . I stopped feeling so l-lonely. I think maybe that made me less of a target?” he supposed aloud. “Like, y’know, it couldn’t r-reach me anymore? Maybe? But if n-not for that . . . _I_ might’ve opened it.”

Mabel sighed bitterly. “Or maybe it was just focusing all of its attention on me by that point.”

“C-could be both,” he reasoned quietly. “Like, you were m-more vulnerable than me—er, than I—at that point, so it started concentrating on you. Like, exclusively. But it’s not _your_ _fault_ if something attacks you. You get that, right? _It’s their fault_.”

Silence was her response. Perhaps she was contemplating what he had said—perhaps finally accepting it, or perhaps she was still rejecting it even now. But she said nothing.

Eventually, Norman wondered where his thoughts had been before the little interlude . . . Right, he had been thinking about the face pushing up beneath the no-face, and how it reminded him of Aggie. Aggie, who had been a poltergeist—a ghost with powerful enough emotions to manifest and act out . . . But the idea that the Slender Man was ultimately just another ghost—powerful but hurting, like Aggie had been—raised more questions than it answered. How could a ghost be coming from the other side of a Cursed Door and another dimension (or pocket reality or whatever)? Why would they strike randomly or grant dark wishes or want vengeance against seemingly unrelated people? Ghosts were people. Like people, they always had a reason for what they did . . . So WHY? There that same question was again . . .

But thinking of ghosts in general made him think of ghosts specifically ... and they were all gone. Detoby and Doctor Pincus and Mister Whitehawk and Grandmother Chiu … they were all gone now … They were all just gone. No trace of them but the fractured mélange of memories the Medium had seen and heard and felt when they possessed him just long enough to take the power to manifest physically. Scars upon the psyche, which Norman had felt for a moment as though they were his own. Was it true Mister Whitehawk had been in Vietnam? Had he stabbed a man barely more than a boy with a bayonet, so that he himself would not be stabbed instead? Or was that Grandmother Chiu in Korea—was that her during the occupation by the hated Japanese, or during the long conflict with the equally hated Soviets, or during her escape from the new and more hateful North Korea with her young child? A child who saw her end lives to protect their own, but could never quite forgive it? Maybe that was Detoby during the First World War, while shells fell like raindrops and mustard gas rolled over the fields like rainclouds? Surely it hadn’t been Doctor Pincus; he was the only one of the four who had never fired a gun, and yet the only one to ever be shot . . . Lying in the gutter, bleeding from his belly, growing cold while a mugger took his meager college-boy wallet and cheap watch, begging heaven for it not to end now—not now, not like this, please please please, he’d do anything, even cease his prodigal rebellion from the faith(s) of his parents—then seeing a black angel descend from on high (in their apartment) to put pressure on his wound and invoke the name of Je-sus Lordy-Lord until the paramedics arrived . . . A miraculous recovery for which his life was rededicated to the ministry and the dentistry . . . Happy truths in the heart, and happy truths on paper . . . Unhappy truths _in_ papers that drove him to stand on bridges and look over the edge until he heard the laughter coming from that miraculous club . . . The laughter of grandchildren on knees grown plump with American prosperity . . . The laughter of men and boys (even some women and girls) knowing the simple success of pulling a rainbow trout from a river . . . Dying laughing on gas. Dying smiling, surrounded by loved ones. Dying quietly in a cabin bed. Dying alone, afraid, and fighting in the gutter for one more taste of fulfillment, basking in the laughter. But gone now—gone except for those too mixed up memories . . . maybe forever . . .

Gone because he called for their help . . . Gone because they risked their deaths for him . . . Gone for him—gone _because_ of him . . .

Gone like Neil Downe was gone . . . because of him . . .

All at once, Norman felt a lump form in his throat. Tight and hard. Constricting, making it difficult for him to breathe. The same familiar grief, but . . . different now. More guilt involved. Had it really been that long since he’d thought of Neil? Had he really not thought of Neil all week? Some friend he was. Become friends with one cute boy—best friends, even—and suddenly he was forgetting all about Neil . . . his _first_ best friend . . .

More than a week. But that was fair, wasn’t it? Forgetting Neil? That was what Neil had done to him—hadn’t that been Norman’s decision? That Neil had forgotten about him, so he could do the same? Except Neil hadn’t gotten Norman killed. It was the other way around . . . But that was . . . It wasn’t . . .

He sighed heavily. Painfully.

“What?” Mabel asked from the other side of her brother. “Something wrong, Norm-Norm?”

“You’re . . . still awake?”

“Nah. I’m just sleep-talking conversationally.”

“Wha—oh. Heh. F-fair enough . . . Is D-Dipper still asleep?”

To find out, she poked her brother in the side. He didn’t stir at all. “Looks like it.”

“G-good . . . Um . . .”

Promptingly, Mabel asked, “What’s on your mind?”

“R-remember how you, um, p-promised me one sympathetic ear? When I w-wanted to talk?” Norman faltered tightly. “W-well . . . Um . . . Would n-now be a good time?”

Softly, sympathetically, she asked, “You wanna talk now? About someone who died and—”

“It’s not that he _died_!” Norman interjected. “It’s that he . . . l-left me . . .”

“Yeah?”

“He’s dead, yeah, b-but . . . _that’s_ not the problem. I mean, I’m a freakin’ M-Medium,” he said emphatically, almost defiantly. “I can see and talk to ghosts. So . . . Neil being _dead_ isn’t the problem. Nor for m-_me_, at least . . . I guess it was pretty bad for his family—especially his b-brother . . . Jeez . . . Sound so selfish . . .”

“Well, you’re the one here who’s hurting now. So . . . What _is_ the problem for _you_?”

Norman’s jaw worked for a moment, then he answered, “Neil being . . . _gone_. Just _gone_.”

“You mean . . . because you moved away?” Mabel asked uncertainly.

“Because _he_ m-moved on. Without . . . without even saying g-_goodbye_ . . . And he _could’ve_!” Norman choked out, furious and sorrowful in the same breath. “That’s the thing! He _could’ve_ held on for just a few minutes—just a _few_ _freakin’_ _minutes_—just long enough to come tell me what happened and say goodbye! But no! I had . . . I had to f-find out the next day . . . at the door . . . from M-Mitch . . . Mitch told me about the . . . the accident, with the d-drunk driver . . . How Neil got hit just walking home from . . . _from m_-_my_ _house_ . . .”

Mabel sat up to better see her new friend over her brother’s comatose frame. She didn’t know what to say, so she simply said, “I’m so sorry . . .”

After a moment, almost resentfully, he continued, “He could’ve held on longer after that, too—c-could’ve held on my whole life, even . . . And I feel so selfish every time I think that, but . . . but . . . Wasn’t he my f-_friend_? Why’d he l-leave me alone like that, then? He was my _only_ real f-friend, and . . . and now he’s gone. Like, I get that his life wasn’t great; he got teased and bullied a lot, and he had some health problems . . . I get he put a b-brave face on a lot of stuff, and it hurt him more’n he ever let on, but . . . Was he s-so glad to be done with it he couldn’t even come say goodbye to me, at least?”

“Not everyone even becomes a ghost, though. Isn’t that right?”

“Y-yeah . . . I _know_ he might’ve been so s-surprised it just . . . just happened,” Norman admitted hollowly. “Too sudden or shocking or whatever for him to hold on, but . . . doesn’t make me _feel_ better. Like, you remember how you said you felt alone and b-betrayed when . . . er . . . I s-said your p-parents aren’t . . . uh, _here_ anymore? It _feels_ like that . . . It _still_ feels like that, even though I know it isn’t . . . Maybe because I _am_ d-different, being a Medium, and I know it c-can be d-different _for me_, at least . . . Or should be. _I_ sh-shouldn’t have to lose my friends; they sh-shouldn’t be gone _from me_ after death . . . because I am a freakin’ Medium. But if that doesn’t m-matter . . . What’s even the point?” he demanded angrily of the universe. “Might as well be n-normal—might as well not hafta put up with everyone always thinking I’m a f-freak—if it’s all for nothing anyway . . . ”

Both sat in silence for a moment, the one composing his thoughts, the other knowing it was best to let him finish whatever it was he needed to say.

Finally, Norman chuckled, but without much humor “Heh. It’s funny . . . Neil was the only person who never once thought I was a f-freak . . . Until D-Dipper, at least . . . And how did I repay him for that? B-by getting him killed.”

Incredulous, Mabel asked, “What?”

“Yeah. That’s the worst part of all this . . . It’s m-my fault Neil died.”

“But . . . how? Were _you_ the drunk driver?” she asked disbelievingly.

“N-no, I . . .” Norman swallowed thickly. He looked away from her, away from her brother; instead, he looked at the ceiling high above. “I kept . . . I kept . . . p-playing that same st-stupid clip . . . On youtube . . . With the bad lip-reading from that p-post-apocalypse sh-show—‘The Ambling Dead’—where all the ‘chompers’ start s-singing about sharks and skunks—so . . . so _damn_ _stupid_!” he cursed himself suddenly and savagely. “Why’d I have to keep playing it over and over again for him?! It’s not like it got any b-better or . . . or f-funnier . . . But if I had st-stopped sooner—just one play through . . . even just _one_ play through s-sooner of that st-stupid clip—he would . . . he would . . .”

Sliding on her knees around her brother, Mabel laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Do you . . . Do you really think it’s your fault? Because of a youtube video?”

“If I’d stopped s-sooner . . . or l-later, even . . . he wouldn’t’ve been at the s-spot where he . . . where he . . .”

“Norm-Norm, think about what you’re saying; you’re saying it’s your fault he’s . . . he’s dead because you showed him too much of something off the internet. Or didn’t show him enough.”

“But I—”

“You’re saying he died because of a funny youtube video you shared—because you were being a good friend just doing what friends do; that’s what you’re saying, Norm-Norm,” Mabel asserted gently. “Do you not see how cuckoo-bananas that sounds? It’s absolutely cray-cray.”

With the back of his hand, he roughly wiped his nose. “Do you . . . not see how cuckoo-bananas it sounds . . . that opening a door makes all the d-disappearances your fault?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but then shut it again; she could think of no response.

“B-besides,” Norman continued miserably. “If it’s n-not my fault . . . why’s Neil g-gone? If he doesn’t b-blame me . . . why’d he n-not even say goodbye?”

“Why’d my . . . my M-Mom and D-Dad move on if they really cared about me? About _us_?” Mabel returned quietly, gesturing to herself and her brother. “M-maybe it wasn’t a question of caring about us. Maybe it wasn’t a question of blaming you. Maybe . . . it just happened, because b-bad stuff sometimes just happens. Like a c-car accident . . . or a drunk driver . . . or w-waking up in heaven, w-wondering how the heck-heck you got there—what the heck-heck even happened . . .” She shook her head then, admitting, “I don’t know, Norm-Norm. . . But I do know if he—Neil?—was cool enough to be your friend, like Dipper, then he must’ve been cool like Dipper. And Dipper would _never_ _ever _think it was your fault. And he wouldn’t want you to go around blaming yourself—especially for something _somebody_ _else_ did. Like that drunk driver, for starters. Try blaming _them_.”

“Or the m-malevolent sentience—the Slender Man?” he offered, wry in the midst of his misery. “You gonna try blaming them?”

After a moment, she bracingly closed her eyes and nodded. “Okay, deal. I’ll stop blaming myself for those kids being gone if you’ll stop blaming yourself for Neil being gone. Alright? Deal?”

Norman did not meet her eye, but he did eventually nod also. A half-hearted concession, but better by far than nothing. “Okay . . .”

For a moment, they sat together on his third of the mattress. Sat in the gloom and gloaming, and said nothing at all. Nor did they think much of anything in particular. It was a moment for feeling, more than anything else—for feeling what still needed to be expiated from their hearts.

Finally, the boy with vertical spikes of hair looked up. Tears now rolled freely down his cheeks, and he said what he felt most of all. “I m-miss him . . .”

The girl nodded as tears began to flow from her eyes. “Yeah . . . I miss my p-parents, too . . .”

“S-so much . . .”

“Me, too . . .”

So they held each other, as friends do, and quietly cried until their grief did not sting so much.


	20. Chapter 20

One cause can have multiple effects, all seemingly unrelated. One pebble in a pond can produce thousands of tipples.

But every effect can be forestalled or stopped by a different cause. Like a ripple striking against some obstacle before it can reach the edge of the pond—before it can touch (and therefore change) _some specific thing_ beyond that obstacle in however subtle a way. That was the tricky thing about the metaphorical pond of reality: the further out a ripple went, the more likely an obstacle would arise . . . The more likely an obstacle would deliberately resist the ripple.

Or make its own ripples, apparently . . .

_How_ had he been able to do that? He should _not_ have been able to do that. Where three could have been taken at once—and one of them, that one of them, a feast—he had stopped even himself from being taken. He had called upon his own agents. and he had empowered them to stop the taking. How? He should not have been able to do that. He was just another morsel of a mortal . . . just another portion in a person . . . and great spirits _did_ _not_ reside in mere scraps of sentience.

So how?

_How_?!

_HOW_?!

He had made his own pulse of energy . . .

He had released his own driving thought to act upon the world . . .

He had created his own cause behind effects . . .

He had cast his own metaphorical pebble into the metaphorical pond of reality . . .

How? He should not have been able to do that.

. . . It did not matter. He had only forestalled his fate, and the fate of the other two, for a cycle. He could not hope to do so a second time. He did not have the power or the experience to escape again. He had not been doing this since technically longer than forever.

. . . And he would have no more of his own agents to call upon and empower—if such could even be called “empowering”, when four of his agents combined could barely forestall the one. Yes, he would soon be taken, and the taking would be particularly sating. Perhaps . . . he could even be turned into a second agent for more takings?

. . . He had proven himself an obstacle, perhaps, but obstacles can be removed.

. . . Obstacles can be eroded away by the right ripples.

It was time to make the first one.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

It was early in the morning for a Saturday (by most people’s reckoning), but yoga instructors are not most people. Nor do they deal with most people, but with a very health conscious demographic—the kind of people who would willingly get up early on a Saturday for a workout before everything else; this is why the yoga instructor (perhaps somewhat less enlightenedly than he did most things . . . perhaps because he had not yet had his enlightening blend of vegan chai tea) was up and fumbling with his keys outside of You Go Yoga before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.

That flier is out-of-date.

His unibrow furrowed, and he took a closer look at the fliers he always willingly allowed to hang around the logo in his window. The one for the Chinese circus in Portland was still good—that was a month off . . . The poetry-reading and book-signing in Eugene was still a week away—also still good . . . But the final one—the one for some sort of dance extravaganza in Salem—had come to term; the event was scheduled for that very night.

“Hmm . . . Well, all my patronesses (plus Patrick) must already know about that, or must already have plans for tonight . . . I suppose I can get rid of that one . . .”

Once inside, he tore it down. But then it slipped out of his fingers and, caught by a backdraft from the closing door, was sucked outside. Before he could step back out and snag it, a stray gust of wind wafted it up and away down the street.

“That . . . was odd,” the yoga instructor mused aloud. “It wasn’t windy earlier . . . But oh well; since it was made of recycled, biodegradables, it might as well decompose in the woods as the dump. Time for my chai tea and some tai-chi to warm-up.”

Meanwhile, the sheet of paper rolled and flapped its way along the sidewalk for a few blocks. One particularly hard gust sent it twirling higher than mere ground-level, like a leaf soaring on the wind. At least until it slapped against a door—right over the brass #2 affixed just above a peep hole.

On the knob of that door hung a sign emblazoned with the words “Do Not Disturb” and the logo of the Hotel Lodge.

****

They lay on the mattresses together. On the single bed. All four of them lay on the bed together. Though Norman’s eyes were closed, he knew all four of them were there. Mabel on the farthest side. Next to her, Dipper. Beside him, Norman himself. And then Neil.

But they were not the only ones in the room.

Slowly, Norman opened his eyes and sat up. Fog encircled them. Cold and damp and lonely. But on the bed, they were warm and dry and together. Under the sunbrella, the fog could not reach them. Norman smiled. “We are safe here. Me and my three friends are safe.”

{Are you?}

Norman looked back away from his friends. Through the fog—from Amity Park and Ashland, from Endsville and Cityburgh, from Whispering Rock and . . . from Gravity Falls—they came. Their faces like swirling mist materializing, their hands like spectral wraiths coalescing. The children. The victims.

“We are safe. Come get on with us. There’s room.”

{We cannot. We have already been taken. And you three will be taken next.}

“There . . . are f-four of us?”

{Are there?}

Norman looked to one side. Dipper and Mabel were still there, still sound asleep. Relief.

Norman looked to the other side. Neil was gone. The space where he had been was gone. Neil had never been there . . . Sorrow . . . Pain . . . Loneliness . . .

**LONELINESS**

There it was. Behind the ring of wraith-children. The rumpled black suit. Circling around them. The reaching hands, cold as the KGB. Watching them. The featureless skin, white as the Grim Reaper. Standing taller than could be possible. The gaunt body, emaciated as a wendigo. Coming now for them. The unknown intentions, mysterious as an alien. Focused entirely on them. The unstoppable determination, remorseless as a government agent.

There it was. The Slender Man.

As one, the wraith-children all held up phones with the exact same text message on the screens. < help! tal mn nfac! com getm helpleas! hepme XQ >

Norman nodded once. He understood that part. At last. “Help. Tall man, no face. Come get me. Help please. Help me . . . Screaming emoji.”

{Yes. You finally see what you have already seen.}

“From my v-vision at Fantastic Scholastic. From that . . . that door. The #13.”

{Yes. You finally know what you have already known.}

“So who is it—the Slender Man—or what is it?”

From Amity Park, {An early grave. The what behind the who.}

From Ashland, {A secret prison. The what behind the who.}

From Endsville, {An endless hunger. The what behind the who.}

From Cityburgh, {A fearful emptiness. The what behind the who.}

From Whispering Rock, {A deathly isolation. The what behind the who.}

From Gravity Falls, {A gaping loneliness. The what behind the who.}

And then, rising up above the kids, came four ghosts—four familiar but lost souls—who wailed, {A Cursed Door! The what behind the who!}

“Guys! Detoby! I’ll find you—_we’ll_ find you!”

The ghosts all pointed behind him. The children pointed with them. {We are there.}

Norman spun around to see a doorway in the fog creeping slowly open. Darkness was behind it. Utter darkness, blacker than night or despair or anything. And the Slender Man came to a stop before it. Stood between them all and the darkness within the Cursed Door.

Norman grasped the shaft of the sunbrella for support. Made himself look at the faceless blank. Made himself not turn away from the stretch beneath it, like a second face pushing outward. Shrieking, but silently. Norman steeled himself and asked, “Who are you? Who are you r-_really_?”

No answer. But it reached its impossibly long arm forward, over the children.

“Who w-_were_ you in life? You were a p-_person_, right? But you’re a ghost now—a p-poltergeist. Let me help you move on. I _want_ to help you be free.”

It seemed it couldn’t reach the kids. Couldn’t reach beneath the sunbrella. So it grabbed the top and began to shake it.

“H-hey! Stop! Why are you doing that?!”

**LONELINESS**

“What do you want?!”

**TAKE AWAY**

The sunbrella started to come loose.

**FOREVER**

“Please! St-stop! Listen to me!”

The sunbrella toppled to the side, and the fog and the cold washed over Norman. In an instant, the Slender Man seized him and cast him into the Cursed Door.

Norman jolted awake with a shiver.

He will not listen to you.

Norman looked around in a panic . . . but there was no Slender Man. And the only doors were the doors to the closet and out of the room.

He will take you. He will bring you to me. And there is nothing you can do to—

Norman looked down and realized that Dipper’s arm was draped over his waist. Somehow, while sleeping, Dipper had rolled over right next to Norman and thrown his arm over him. They had been sleeping like that for . . . for _hours_, maybe.

That thought was more than enough to warm the taller boy—right from the tips of his toes to the tips of his vertical spikes of hair. Maybe even make him a little too warm; he could definitely feel that he was blushing. But at the same time, no, he was definitely okay with being too warm if it meant being like this. This was definitely okay. Optimal, even. It could _not_ get any better than this.

And _that_ thought was more than enough to banish any nightmares or lingering insecurities. How could any bad thought insinuate itself into his mind with _that _already occupying it?

After checking that both the twins—especially Dipper—were both still soundly asleep, Norman carefully slid back under the covers . . . and under Dipper’s arm. A better protection than fortifications or armor. More apotropaic than any magic talisman ever crafted by man or spirits. Then he sidled up closer to Dipper, until there was no space between their bodies.

Suddenly, Dipper moved. Panic (and adrenaline) briefly flooded Norman’s veins. But . . . nothing else happened; no sudden and surprised words or push away, just . . . just Dipper pulling Norman closer to him in his sleep. Holding him tighter and harder in his sleep . . . So panic turned to quiet elation and determinedly still excitement; Norman would not have moved from that spot for anything in the world. It was quite probably the most delighted moment of his life . . . They were spooning (even though neither would have known what that word meant in this context), with the bigger spoon being shorter, and the smaller spoon being taller . . . But it worked. It worked like magic.

And, before he realized it, feeling perfectly warm and safe and relaxed, Norman fell back asleep.

****

Milk and eggs sloshed into pancake mix (twice the usual amount of all three), and the whole mess was eventually jabbed into a glop of more-or-less even consistency (if “soggy powderiness” counts as a consistency). This was then gooped unceremoniously into a smoking pan to almost burn on one side before being scraped up and almost burnt on the other. Once sprinkled with a soupcon of gray hair (preferably from the body, to give the recipe a little more body), the world famous “Stancakes Pines” were ready to serve. Voi-flippin’-la.

Scratching himself, Stan gooped a second spoonful into the pan and glared at it with as much intensity as was coming from the stovetop. It was a wonder both sides didn’t cook at the same time. Then, after setting the second Stancake on a second plate, he began making a third. With a fourth and fifth plate after that. A plate for each of the twins, one for their new friend with hair like a paintbrush, one for the handyman who had slept at the foot of the stairs, and one for Stan himself. Five plates total, all needing to be filled with food from _his_ kitchen. Twice the usual amount of breakfast needed for the Pines household, quickening the time until he’d need to pay for more groceries.

“Graglegrabughra . . . Moochin’ sleepoverers needin’ food . . .” the old man grumbled to himself. “Graffumbuhterstahmp . . . Eatin’ me outta house ‘n’ home . . . Kids better be spendin’ just as much time at Paintbrush’s, eatin’ _their_ food for once . . . Oughta take whatever Soos eats outta his paycheck . . .”

The handyman poked his head into the kitchen. “You call for me, Mister Pines?”

“No, just talkin’ to myself,” Stan grumbled a little louder than before. “Hey, go check and see if the kids are awake yet.”

“Sure thing!”

The pan got its fourth goop while Soos was gone, and continuous color commentary like: “Fragglerockindunderpate . . . Smurffedopaminto . . . Grattlewinothundercats . . .” It was, by far, some of the old man’s most inscrutable grumbling ever. Even he probably had no idea what he was saying.

Then the handyman poked his head back into the kitchen. “Dudes are still asleep, Mister Pines.”

“But it’s almost nine already.”

“Well, sleepovers _are_ conducive to staying up late, which leads to sleeping in the next day. Such is the nature of the sleepover beast,” Soos replied philosophically. “You want I should wake them up?”

Stan heaved a longsuffering sigh, then grumbled, “No, let ‘em sleep. I’ll finish makin’ these before I go get dressed for the day. Hopefully we’ll actually have some customers today, even if I’m the only one workin’ ‘em over when they come . . .”

“Um . . . I’m dressed and ready to start working, Mister Pines,” Soos pointed out helpfully.

“What? You wanna medal for doin’ your job?”

“I . . . wouldn’t say ‘No’ to one . . . If you’re offering . . .”

“No, that wasn’t . . . I was just being . . . Ugh . . .” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Fine. Y’know what, Soos? You’re Employee of the Month again. Go get the sash; you can wear it all day.”

Soos actually went, “Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” as he scampered up to the office.

Stan shouted after him, “But then get right back here and eat your flippin’ Stancakes! I’m not going bankrupt makin’ extra breakfast just for it to not get eaten!”

****

It was a motley caravan of vehicles that crested the pass into Gravity Falls, but most of them were eight years old (or older) and family vehicles (borrowed from Mom and Dad). Especially minivans. They were filled with teenagers in faux-Victorian attire who enjoyed dark colors, cosmetics, and jewelry, as well as listening to the Cure and occasionally to the Disease (even though it was a well-known fact that the Cure was worse than the Disease). The lead car was driven by none other than Paul Oftarzis.

The gothic cavalry had arrived.

By prior arrangement, they headed for the center of town to convene with their compatriots who stood ready to continue the search. Thus the Gravity Falls and the Woodbury Consortiums joined forces (such as were left of them after the philosophical schism, and had been free to join the search—free and still willing after a week’s worth of fruitless efforts).

“Whoa . . .” one of Woodbury marveled. “Look at this fog . . . It’s like a Tim Burton film—one of his particularly less subtle, more tacky ones.”

“Like ‘Sleepy Hollow’, maybe?”

“Yep. Exactly like that. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too!”

“I think it sorta looks like London. If, y’know, London was in central Oregon instead of England.”

“Ugh, again with bringing up London! We get it, Tracey; you spent your summer in the UK!”

Meanwhile, Paul Oftarzis and Samuel Turley shook hands. “Well met by . . . daylight, I guess.”

“Indeed. Well met, and thank you for coming! We could definitely use the reinforcements.”

“Of course. Of course. Where are we to begin our search for poor Ebony Ravenspath?”

Gesturing in the general directions as he spoke, the Keeper of the Precepts answered, “We’ve already searched around the school, around his/her house, and around the outskirts of the town. As much as the autocrat of the school and the police would allow, that is,” he added bitterly. “But today, we’re splitting up to cover the interior neighborhoods, then push out into the woods.”

“Are we, uh, sure that’s wise? If some maniac has been abducting people—”

“We’ll be moving in groups.”

“Ah, good.”

“Furthermore, at the behest of the aforementioned police, everyone is going to get a flier with a picture and some information of the other abductees,” Samuel Turley continued. “They’d like us to keep an eye out for them, as well. As they’re doing the same for Ebony, well . . .”

“Least we can do,” Paul Oftarzis agreed. “You have the fliers ready? I’ll help you distribute them and organize people into groups. I reckon we should have at least one local in each group.”

“Good idea, yes. Let’s get started. I’ve got them right here.”

“By the Nether Fires! Who knew it was possible for a non-goth to wear that much make-up?!”

“Yes, that Gleeful kid does like to cake it on. Wait until you see that Northwest girl, though.”

****

It was time to make the second ripple.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

Few things are quite as refreshing as sleeping until one is no longer tired, and then taking a long, hot, cleansing bath in pure rubbing alcohol before breakfast. At least, that was Esmerelsa’s opinion. And if the way she felt when she moved to leave her hotel room was any indication, she was probably right. It was as if she was a new woman.

And why not? True, the evening before had not gone 100% as planned—Stanford suddenly and inexplicably lost all interest in their dinner and dancing (because he was certain he heard a scream), and then shortly afterwards he lost all interest in their date (because los chicos came barreling in, needing their fears quieted by a strong protector figure)—but it had gone at least 76% as planned (depending on how strictly one defined the variable parameters of the evening), and that made it a success, no? Yes!

Not even a bit of litter blowing through the doorway when she opened it—filthy, unhygienic, street litter wafting against her freshly purified foot!—could tarnish her mood. She simply bent down to pick it up and throw it away, and . . .

It was for a “dance extravaganza” of some kind.

She paused a moment and examined it more closely.

In the ballroom of Salem’s most prominent hotel (“This year in Hotel Jeru, Salem!”) that very day (starting at seven o’clock in the evening, to be precise), the International Tango Federation was hosting a “Dance for the Cure” benefit to raise money for lupus research. The event would include competitions that were specific to age and proficiency for ITF members (and required pre-registration), but would also include a walk-in dance-off for non-members, and lots of open dance time for everyone. The entry fee was only $100 per person.

“Dios mio! What fun that would be!” Esmerelsa said to herself. She picked up the flier by the corner with the very tips of her thumb and index finger as she did, and flicked it into the trash. “Qué lástima that mi eStanford and I could never go—not with how worried he has been for los chicos’ saf—”

You must make him go. This is your last chance to win his heart and secure a future with him.

Esmerelsa froze where she stood, then looked back over her shoulder at the flier in the trash. What if last night was how it was always going to be with Stanford? What if he was always going to put each and every one of their childish whims and fears first? What if she was never going to be a priority? What if he was never going to look at her without having some thought of them in the back of his mind? It wasn’t that she was unwilling to share him with them, but . . . What if she would have no equal part with them—or even a part of him for herself? What if he was now more father than lover, and too much a father for them to be a real lover for her?

Blowing out a deep breath, she decided, “We will go to Salem. I will convince him. We will have this evening together as man and woman, and I will carve out for myself an equal part of his heart. Then, once that is assured me, he and I can both be for each other . . . and for los chicos, also . . . Together . . . It is the only way for all of us.”

It was then she did something she had never done before in her life—something she had promised herself she would never do: she reached into the trashcan and pulled something back out. Only long enough to commit all the details of the flier to memory, though; then, she dropped it back in and washed her entire hand up to the elbow for ten minutes straight. And cleaned the shoe which the flier had touched when it blew into her room. And washed both hands for another ten minutes straight.

But all that gave her the time she required to decide exactly how she would convince Stanford to join her in a trip to Salem, roughly four hours west of Gravity Falls . . .

****

Along the highways and byways of Oregon, over a dozen different people were preparing to go about their days. They had nothing in common; they were of different socioeconomic backgrounds, different ethnicities and religions and sexualities, different educational pedigrees, different career fields, and different ages. Some were rising from bed in their homes or in hotels; some were dressing, bathing, breakfasting, facebooking, watching the news or reading the newspaper; some were already climbing into their vehicles, or even hitting the road.

And then, they were all struck by a sudden, oddly specific curiosity.

What is the Mystery Shack?

The thought was all-consuming. It could not be denied. So they each in turn, using their iPhones or laptops or PCs, looked up “Mystery Shack” on the internet. The site was . . . unusual. A little spooky, even. Intriguing . . . It made this museum of wonders and oddities called the “Mystery Shack” look like it was worth a visit.

And since it was a Saturday morning . . . Why not then? Because it turned out that all these different people—over a dozen of them, with families and friends who could join them—did have one thing in common: they had absolutely nothing of consequence they had to do that day.

So, making their way along the highways and byways of Oregon towards Gravity Falls, they all decided they would find out for themselves what the Mystery Shack was.

****

Mabel rose from the tangle of blankets and limbs (and one pig) that had been the kids’ sleeping arrangement and shuffled towards the bathroom. Though her eyes were scrunched mostly shut, she found the way by muscle memory and touch (also a little bit of sound, since the shower, sink, and toilet all leaked slightly). Then, still fumbling blindly, she located her toothbrush and toothpaste, the faucet, and her mouth (only smearing a little bit of toothpaste on everything in the process). By then, she was awake enough to crack an eyelid and (thankfully) notice she had forgotten to shut the door. She did so before relieving herself or starting her shower. By the time she left the bathroom, she was awake enough for the most important decision of the day: her wardrobe.

It seemed like a foregone conclusion: she was a goth now, so she would dress like a goth. But . . . when she held the sweater to her reflection, it felt . . . wrong. Like it didn’t look like her—like it wasn’t _Mabel_. Plus, she realized just how heavy the overly bezazzled sweater really was, and how much that had probably almost cost them the night before . . .

She discarded it—dropped it right on the floor—and looked back through her sweater collection for the right one. The first to jump out at her was a bright magenta color. Thinking “Why the heck not?”, she pulled it out and held up to her reflection. Only then did she see it was her “Shooting Star” sweater, with a big, golden star trailing a vibrant rainbow trail behind it. Her favorite . . . Or what it used to be, back before . . . back before _everything_ . . .

“Hey!” her brother’s voice suddenly said behind her, “Your Shooting Star sweater!” She turned around to see him (now disentangled from their friend) rising from the mattresses. He was rubbing an eye and smiling tentatively. “This mean, uh, that it’s . . . time?”

“Time?”

“Yeah. Like . . . Are you, y’know, ready? To be . . . To be _you_ again?” he asked hopefully.

“I . . . Well, I . . .”

Mabel looked back at her reflection, with the “Shooting Star” superimposed over it. She liked the look of it, but . . . but it didn’t really look like her, either—it wasn’t _Mabel_, either.

She shook her head once, almost sadly, and let the sweater drop. “No. Not yet.”

“Oh . . .” Dipper sounded disappointed.

“Sorry, Dipping Sauce.”

“No, it’s . . . Don’t worry about me, Mabel Syrup. Do what you gotta do; I’ll always support you.”

“I was thinking, though,” she added, more peppily than before. “The goth sweater won’t work. Definitely won’t work today, ‘cause (for one thing) it’s not very tactical. Y’know, with how heavy it is.”

Dipper smiled dryly. “No! Really? You think?”

“I do. Of all my sweaters, it is the least tactical for facing the Slender Man.”

“It isn’t a very tactical turtle neck? So I guess you could say it isn’t a . . . tactle neck?”

“. . . Why have I never thought of that?” Mabel wondered in stunned self-reproach.

“Don’t feel bad about it; you spend your creative energy thinking up new, original sweaters, and I spend mine thinking up new, original puns.”

“Well, anyway, besides being too heavy, it’s also too sparkly. One flash of light, and I give away our position to the enemy.”

“The . . . enemy that has no eyes?”

“Just because the Slender Man doesn’t have eyes doesn’t mean it can’t see.”

“Uh . . .”

“Besides, it’s not just that it sparkles visibly. It also sparkles _audibly_. Like little chimes.”

“Giving away our position to an enemy that has no ears.”

“Exactly. So the goth sweater is out,” Mabel decreed. Then she added, “Besides . . . Even if I’m not ready for the ‘Shooting Star’ yet—even if it isn’t time for that yet . . . Well, I also don’t feel like it’s time for the goth sweater anymore either. So . . .”

“So . . . ?”

“So . . . yeah. It’s out.”

“Then which one _are_ you going to wear?” Dipper prompted her. “Need any help picking it?”

“Hmm . . .” Mabel’s eye roved back through her sweater collection. After a minute, she decisively pulled out a new one. It was a bluish gray—clearly not black, but still dark—with a triangle across the front in some glassy color. A white line ran into it from one side, and a rainbow extended out the other. A sweater with a prism across the front. “This one! My ‘Dark Side of the Mabel’ creation!”

“Heh . . . That was Mom’s favorite. Remember how she’d always play that weird CD whenever you wore it?”

Mabel smiled a bittersweet smile. “Y-yeah . . . Ahem . . . She’d, uh, always say it reminded her of music her dad used to play . . . She said once it made her s-sad, but also happy to think about that . . . Guess I kinda get what she meant now.”

Dipper nodded. “Yeah, me too . . . So, uh, I’m gonna go get showered and dressed and ready and stuff. We’d better start figuring out how we’re gonna beat the Slender Man.”

“And get breakfast!”

“Yeah, exactly. Why don’t you wake Norman up as soon as you’re done dressing?”

“You got it, Bro-Bro.”

****

It was unusual for anyone to knock at the Mystery Shack’s front door—even more unusual for anyone to knock before ten in the morning on a Saturday—but Stan cinched up his cravat and straightened his eyepatch all the same as he approached the front door. They badly needed whatever business had come their way, after all, even if it came early (relatively speaking) on a weekend morning. So, swinging the door wide, he boomed out a loud and jovial greeting, “WELCOME TO THE MYSTERY—”

Two hands seized him by the lapels to pull him downward into a passionate kiss.

About twenty seconds later, Stan was released from the kiss. Drunkenly, he stumbled back into the lintel to try to regain his breath. And his brain. “—Shack up with me . . . I m-mean, come with Mystery . . . I mean . . .”

Esmerelsa seized him again into another lung-straining, mind-melting kiss. About twenty-five seconds later, she released him and watched his reaction.

Gasping happily for breath, he babbled, “. . . I can show you the Gift Shop . . . Shining, shimmering, spend it . . .”

She seized him a third time and, about twenty-eight seconds later, released him yet again.

This time, Stan did not merely lean against the lintel for support; he slid down it like a man whose knees have been jellified. No coherent words passed his lips, only a gurgling sound.

Judging his defenses sufficiently demolished, Esmerelsa leaned in to whisper, “Last night, mi eStanford, we did not finish our tango.”

He gurgled interrogatively.

“No, we did not. Los chicos interrupted us. Now you owe me _more_ tango. And I have come to collect your—how do you esay?—debt, I think? With _interest_, mi eStanford.”

He gurgled obligingly.

Esmerelsa smiled. She had him; in his current state, he would happily agree to anything she demanded. “There is a fiesta del tango tonight—esome esort of event to raise money for charity, I think. No tiene importancia.”

He gurgled interrogatively.

“Si, we are going. You and I. I am taking you. And we will tango in the concurso together. And win. Gorjea if you consent.”

He gurgled consentingly.

“Exquisito.” Pulling him upward, she began to lead him to her car. “Let us go now. We will need attire that is appropriate, but we eshould have esufficient time to buy it once we reach eSalem.”

On some level, it occurred to the old man that he was being led away from the Shack—away from Dipper and Mabel and their new friend . . . Paintbrush, or whatever—_for the entire day_. “S-Salem? But, wait, the kids . . . Something had ‘em really spooked last night. I can’t leave ‘em alone and run to—”

Esmerelsa seized him by the lapels and pulled him downward into yet another kiss. This one lasted for over forty seconds. Stan was nearly unconscious by the time she released him. Nearly unconscious, but extremely happy.

“They have how many years? Thirteen? Fourteen? Adolescentes, they can esee to themselves. And they will have your employee—your eSoos—to watch over them throughout the day. You do not need to worry about them, mi eStanford. No.” The woman who was no longer middle-aged, but who was still so hot, asserted smolderingly, “What you eshould worry about is how I will look in my dress tonight when we eshow _los_ _amateures_ what is the true tango.”

He gurgled in agreement.

“Good. Now put on this blindfold and get into my car. I will go esplain the esituation to your employee,” she added, quashing what remained of his objections in one seductive swoop.

He gurgled happily as he stumbled through the fog to her car.

Everything turned out to be fairly simple after that. Soos was investigating the wide-open door by the time she reached the porch. He stared blankly at her for a moment, and then began the routine automatically, “Um . . . W-welcome to the Myst—”

“You are in charge for the day,” she stated succinctly. “eSee to los chicos and los clientes. I am taking Señor eStanford away. We will not be back until tomorrow. Hasta mañana.”

“Um . . . Okay?”

With that, Esmerelsa turned and marched back to her car. A moment later, she and Stan were driving away through the fog, headed northwest.

****

The obstacle’s first support was gone. Now to erode away another.

It was time to make the third ripple.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

“Has he called yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard, honey. And since the phone is right there, where’d we both hear it . . .”

Perry looked back down at his laptop and his work spreadsheet and said nothing. He specifically did not say, “This is where our kids get their sarcasm, in case you were wondering.” But he did think it.

“He _was_ at a sleepover last night,” Sandra pointed out mildly. “Which means he probably didn’t go to bed until after midnight. Plus, he is a teenager now, and you know how they can sleep. ‘First thing in the morning’ for him might not be until two in the afternoon.”

Perry continued to look at his laptop and his work spreadsheet and said nothing.

“Courtney isn’t even up yet, and she went to bed about the same time we did. Normal, uneventful night for her, but still in bed. Imagine if she’d spent the night at a friend’s house . . . Imagine if it’d been her _first_ _real_ _friend_ in months, and the first one since—”

“The foot is down, Sandra,” her husband growled. “He is grounded as soon as he gets home.”

“Whatever you think is _best_ for our son, honey,” she replied lightly.

“Thank you.”

“If that means punishing him for having friends, or for starting to act like a happy, healthy teen, then do that. Whatever you think is _best_ for our son.”

Perry glared at his laptop and his work spreadsheet and said nothing.

“What won’t he be allowed to do? Talk to his new friends after school? Because—”

“I’m going to call him myself right now,” her husband broke in irritably.

“Fine, honey. Whatever you think is _best_ for your son.”

Perry tried using his own cellphone, but the strange interference hadn’t ceased; the call would just not connect. He went for the home phone, but then had to ask, “You know what the number is for that Mystery Stack or whatever where Norman’s friend lives?”

“Check the call log. You could probably even just use redial, since I would think it should be the last number to call us,” she replied with brittle helpfulness.

“Oh, right. Thanks. Let’s see . . .”

She is right, and you know it. He should be allowed to stay another day and night. You can always ground him for lying after the weekend.

Perry’s finger’s hovered over the button while he considered that new compromise. Then, with a satisfied little grin, he played the strategy he had chosen. He specifically did not say, “Let’s see you complain about this move, dear,” as he pushed the redial. But he did think it.

After a few rings, a girl’s voice answered, “Hello and welcome to the world-infamous Mystery Shack, where all your dreams come alive *cough(yeseventhescaryones—especiallythescaryones)cough*. When can I reserve your next visit? Act now and get a special, one-time ten minus ten percent off the tour rate! It’s amazing! You’d be crazy not to act now!”

“Uh, yeah, hello. This is Perry Babcock. I’m calling for my son, Norman?”

“Oh, Mister Babcock!” the girl gushed. “How good to talk to you again! How’s business?”

“Uh, fine. Could I—”

“What are you working on now? What’s your most recent project?”

“Um . . . Just handling finances for a few companies. Keeping everything in the black. Is Norm—”

“And how’s the wife? Norm-Norm said she works part time at a florist’s?”

“She’s . . . fine, I guess. Likes the work. Gives her something creative to do, and she smells nice.”

Sandra looked up in surprise. Then she smiled. “Aw! You noticed!”

“And how’s Grandma doing?” the girl continued conversationally. “Oh, wait! I forgot Norman’s here, so I guess you can’t really talk to her to find out. Hahaha! Silly Mabel! Hey, speaking of Norman, he’s right here at the table eating one of our Gruncle’s allegedly delicious and nutritious breakfasts. Would you like to speak with him maybe?”

“Uh, yes please?”

“Okay, I’ll pass you over! Great talking with you, Mister Babcock! Always a pleasure! Easy to see where Norm-Norm gets all his charm! Here you go!” she lilted. And then, with the sound of the receiver changing hands, there was a bit of muffled conversation that sounded something like, “There you go. He’s all schmoozed over. You’re welcome.”

“Um . . . Th-thanks?” Norman’s voice responded. Then he was on the phone. “D-Dad? Hey, sorry I didn’t call yet. W-we just barely got up and were having b-breakfast. I was gonna call you right after—”

Perry waved that off, saying indulgently, “Don’t worry about it, son. You sleep well? You having fun over there with your friends?”

“Er, yeah. L-lots. In fact, I was . . . s-sorta wondering if—””

“You could stay another day? I don’t see why not. I mean, provided you three stay at the house and there’s always a responsible adult present.”

Suddenly, the girl’s voice rang in the receiver, “Not to worry, Mister Babcock! I can guarantee that there will definitely always be an adult present here at the Mystery Shack! You can count on that!”

“Well then, sounds good!” Perry decreed. “You can spend the whole day and even another night with your friends, son. We’ll talk about . . . well, how you went there without permission when you come home on Sunday. But until then, have fun with your new friends, alright?”

“Uh . . . Alright?” Norman answered uncertainly, unsure he was hearing all this right.

“Okay. Lo . . . Er . . . Lo-lo-you . . . Um . . . L-looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, son. Bye.” Perry hung up the phone. When he looked up, it was to see his wife’s surprised expression. “What?”

“You’re . . . not grounding him?”

“No, I am; I said that he’s grounded as soon as he gets home, and he is. But he doesn’t have to come home until tomorrow,” Perry replied smugly. “That way, he gets to be with his friends, but still has to face the consequences for lying to his father. Win-win. And _that_ is what I think is _best_ for my son. Unless you’ve got some other input, that is? Honey?” he added in a “checkmate” tone of voice.

“Er . . . No. Sounds good.”

“Thank you.”

****

Norman starred unbelievingly at the phone in his hand. Not because it had a chord and a rotary (still, in this modern day and age), although that was pretty hard to believe, but because of what he had just heard over it. “What the fricassee just happened?”

“Wha’suh?” Dipper asked through a mouthful of pancake and syrup.

“I’m . . . _not_ in trouble with D-Dad. I can even spend today and t-tonight with you guys again.”

Elaine blinked in astonishment. {Really? He’s allowing that? Even after last night?}

Mabel nodded confidently. “That’s the power of Mabel schmoozing. No one can resist it.”

“Huthah!” Dipper cheered.

“Uh . . . W-what?”

“Ithed, ‘Huthah!’.”

“Uh . . .”

With an eyeroll of exasperation, Mabel said, “Swallow before you talk, Dipstick. That’s, like, basic etiquette. Even Waddles know to do that, and he was probably literally born in a barn.”

And Waddles, as if to prove her point, swallowed the piece of breakfast Mabel slipped to him before grunting something that was either “Etiquette” or “Doorbell”.

Rolling his own eyes, Dipper swallowed, then stated, “I said, ‘Huzzah!’.”

Norman was on the verge of asking, “Uh . . . What?” again, when he suddenly felt a wave of cold so intense that he couldn’t help but shiver right there at the table.

There is no escape. This is your last day on Earth. You will never see your fa—

Three voices spoke as one (though only the Medium could hear the first). Elaine asked, {Normy? Something the matter?} Mabel asked, “You okay, Norman Conquest?” And Dipper, through another mouthful, asked, “Wha’swi’oo?”

Then Mabel glared at her brother. “Honestly! At least lift your pinky while you act like an uncouth boar.”

Dipper swallowed pointedly, then retorted, “First of all, it’s ‘boor’. A boar is a wild pig—”

“Exactly my point, Bro-Boar!”

“So you’re gonna insinuate that Waddles’ race is uncivilized? You’re gonna perpetuate anti-pig stereotypes?”

“I never—”

“Pigot. That’s what you are,” her brother interrupted triumphantly. “You’re a real _pigot_.”

Elaine clucked disapprovingly, {That’s not a very nice thing to say to one’s sister.}

“And a real _hypocrite_, too,” Dipper continued, “because you eat with your mouth full all the time. Hypocrite. That was my second of all.”

“You mean ‘_talk_ with my mouthful’?” Mabel cut back, just as triumphantly.

“I . . . Um . . .”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Taking the time to swallow first would give you time to think about what you say before you say it. Besides, while I _might_ talk with my mouthful _on occasion_—”

“Or all the time every day.”

“—I do not do it while _guests_ are _present_ because _I_ am a _lady_. And neither does Waddles, because he is a cultured gentlepig. He even wears a tophat sometimes. Unlike his unrefined foreboars.”

{They’re going to go on like this forever, aren’t they?} Elaine asked her grandson.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he chuckled.

In an instant, Mabel leapt on his utterance. “There! See? Even Norman agrees with me!”

“W-what? No! I d-didn’t agree with her! I was talking to Grandma! And t-trying not to laugh at you two!”

“Heh. He’s _really_ jumpy,” Mabel observed.

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” her brother agreed.

“That’s gonna make it _really_ fun to hang out with him.”

“Once again, you have _no_ idea.”

Norman felt himself blush a little from happiness. He was fun to hang out with? Dipper thought he was fun to hang out with? Well, of course Dipper must have thought that, or he wouldn’t have said Norman was his best friend the night before. His! _BEST_! Friend! The idea made him want to cheer aloud, but he contented himself by saying, “Th-thanks!”

“Getting back on topic . . . What _was_ that shiver about?” the behatted boy inquired.

“Huh? Oh, uh . . . Heh. I can’t remember now,” the taller boy answered honestly. “Must’ve been a draft or s-something. Anyway, don’t we have p-planning to do? For the . . . For the Slender Man?” he added in a whisper.

“Oh, right. To business, Mystery Kids!”

{Since you’re all burning daylight,} Elain added as she resumed her knitting.

“W-which could be a really b-bad thing with the Slender Man. B-burning daylight, that is,” the Medium added for the twins’ benefit. “Since it, uh, st-strikes at night.”

“Yeah . . .”

A somber pall was cast over the table, despite its happy plates of pancakes and bottles of syrup. Then, Soos entered the kitchen looking slightly more bewildered than usual (despite the “Employee of the Month” sash across his chest—a sash he would normally wear quite proudly).

“What’s up, Soos?” Dipper asked. “Congrats on earning EM again, by the way.”

“I’ll second that! And who was at the door? Did we get some tourists?” Mabel chimed in. “That should make Gruncle Stan happy!”

“Uh . . . Dudes, I think Mister Pines was just sorta kidnapped?”

All three kids (and one ghost) blinked at the handyman in disbelief.

“But it didn’t seem to be against his will?” Soos explained uncertainly.

“Is that, like, even possible?” Mabel posited. “Being kidnapped _with_ your will?”

“Who took him?” Dipper demanded. “It wasn’t a tall man in a dark suit with no face, was it?”

“No, it was this little lady. She definitely had a face, too. In a gray skirt-jacket kinda ensemble,” Soos recalled. “Looked very . . . neat. Real professional. She’s, uh, kinda been around the Shack a couple times this week. I found her cleaning the kitchen two days ago.”

“That explains why everything’s in a different place. It took me, like, _an hour_ to find the syrup!”

“It _maybe_ took you a _minute_, Mabel. Don’t exaggerate.”

“But that’s an hour in _syrup years_!”

The handyman continued anxiously, “She told me she was taking him away for the day and they wouldn’t be back ‘til tomorrow.”

Mabel gasped. “O.M.G. Like a _date_?! She’s taking him on a _date_?! SQUEEEE! That’s adorable!”

“And really deplorable timing . . .” Dipper muttered.

“She, uh, also said I was in charge today, which . . . I dunno. Can _she_ do that? Put me in charge?” Soos asked, insecurely fretting the sash he wore. “Do you think Mister Pines gave her that authority?”

“Oh, Soos . . .” In a calming, rational voice, Dipper explained, “Soos, you’re in charge by default whenever Gruncle Stan isn’t here anyway. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Heh. I guess I was kinda panicking for nothing there. Phew.”

And then, as if to undercut his statement, there was a ring from the entrance to the museum portion of the Shack. A mere glance outside was enough to confirm that there were tourists in the parking lot.

“Oh, dudes, we got customers! Lots of ‘em!” Soos panicked. “What do I do?! What do I do?!”

“Go put on the fez and lead a tour. Like you’ve done dozens of times,” Dipper replied in the same calming, rational voice.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Heh. Sorry, dudes, I don’t know what’s with me today. B.R.B.” And Soos was off, booming the welcoming spiel to the day’s first flock of pigeons.

{Jittery fellow, isn’t he?} Elaine commented without looking up from her knitting.

Eventually, Mabel asked the others, “You realize what this means, right?”

“We’ve lost our emergency recourse to Gruncle Stan and his ten guns?” Dipper fumed.

“No! Well, yes, I guess,” she ceded. “But, more importantly, it means Gruncle Stan wasn’t kidding when he said he’s been meeting a ‘lady friend’ this week! The old dog’s still got a few tricks!”

“That . . . would explain why he’s been acting so weird all week,” her brother reasoned out loud. “Remember how we ran into him at the gazebo last night? With all that unusual food?”

“It was so yummy!”

{Don’t forget the lanterns,} Elaine reminded them through her grandson.

“Oh, yeah! The lanterns in the gazebo! That was _soooo_ romantic!” Mabel added. “Plus, he was out there in his best suit.”

“After whitening his teeth,” Dipper said emphatically. “And he’s been exercising all week.”

“No! For real?”

“I walked in on him doing some sorta aerobic thing to Latin music. When I saw him, he threw the CD player through the door.”

“No way! Do you think he was _dancing_? Women his age _love_ dancing!”

{Well, it’s _fun_,} Elaine countered, though mostly for her own benefit.

“Stan denied dancing. Vehemently. So . . . yeah, I’m certain he was dancing,” Dipper stated.

“Whoa . . .” Mabel intoned disbelievingly. “Sounds like he’s really serious about her . . . You think we’re gonna get a Graunt soon?”

“Um, g-guys? I think we’re a l-little off topic here,” Norman broke in timidly. “The topic being, y’know, the m-malevolent sentience which wants to take us away f-forever?”

Dipper nodded. “Right. Right. Plan now—”

“And Stan later! Yuck yuck yuck!” Mabel interjected.

Elaine groaned. {Detoby must be alright, because she is clearly channeling him.}

“I . . I really hope so . . . Anyway, I st-still think we should’ve told Stan. About the . . . _y’know_,” Norman said with a nod towards Dipper’s vest, and the journal that lay therein. “If he’d known, he m-might’ve believed us about the Slender Man. And st-stayed today.”

“Maybe . . .” Dipper conceded. “I _doubt_ it, but maybe . . .”

“Gruncle Stan _has_ been ultra-skeptical about all the supernatural stuff Dipping Dots and me have seen,” Mabel said in her brother’s defense.

“Thinks I’ve got a paranoia complex,” the behatted boy muttered resentfully.

“You _do_ think half the forest is out to get you.”

“And I _know_ the _other_ half _is_ out to get me,” Dipper countered emphatically.

Norman cleared his throat, trying to drag the twins back on topic again. “C-could we maybe still tell Gruncle Stan? Over the phone, m-maybe?”

“He doesn’t have a cell,” Mabel answered. “How would we reach him?”

“Well, then, what about m-my parents? Or the police? Did you t-tell them about the journal?”

Dipper snorted derisively. “I’m not wasting another second on the police. As for your parents . . . Would they believe us without showing them the journal?”

“H-honestly? I’m not sure,” Norman admitted. “There was the th-thing with Aggie last year, but that was n-nothing like this.”

Dipper let out a slow breath, then decided, “I’d prefer not to let them in on the secret. Worse comes to worst, we’ll tell them about the Slender Man, but not the Cursed Door. They wouldn’t need to know about that anyway, since our goal now is simply to beat the Slender Man to close its door. The journal doesn’t exactly help us with that anyway.”

“It doesn’t?” Mabel asked.

“Well, not _exactly_. It’s got some stuff that might be useful for combatting spiritual entities—exorcisms and seals and such—but we can always claim we found that info in a regular library book if we have to enlist your parents’ help, Norm.” Then, after a moment’s thought, Dipper asked, “You said you stopped a really powerful poltergeist back in your hometown. Were your parents much help then?”

“Um . . . W-well, Dad _did_ drive me to where her grave was,” the Medium answered sheepishly. “Th-that was about it, though, I g-guess . . .”

With a sigh, Dipper concluded, “So it basically sounds like we’re on our own. As usual.”

“They do have some b-baseball bats at home, though.”

{Which is more than you kids have,} his grandmother pointed out.

Mabel waved a hand dismissively. “Big deal. We got a mace and a grappling hook.”

{Wait, what?}

“And Soos. Let’s not forget Soos, Dipstick.”

“Soos _is_ a rock,” her brother readily concurred. “I’m glad we can count on his help. Even if he doesn’t come with a backup arsenal of firearms.”

“Okay, but his help to do w-_what _exctly?” Norman insisted. “We still don’t know what _exactly_ we’re gonna do to st-stop the Slender Man. Every time we start talking about it, we get distracted by a tangent.”

“Hey! Look at that cool bird in the window!” Mabel exclaimed.

“Ugh!”

“That was a joke, Normanly-Man.”

Dipper chuckled. Then he cleared his throat, “I think we should start by—”

“DUDES!” Soos slid to a stop outside the door so fast his sash flapped around and the fez tumbled to the floor; his face was red and sweaty with panic. “We got a serious situation here! There are, like, tons of tourists all of a sudden, and Wendy isn’t here to run the gift shop! I need help! Spat!”

{I think he means “stat”. That’s what they always say in my stories with the sexy, hot doctors,} Elaine clarified.

“But we’re in the midst of planning how we’re gonna do a monster hunt!” Dipper protested.

“Can’t we do that later? After all the tourists are gone?” the handyman pleaded. “I need someone in the gift shop, and maybe someone else to lead a second tour!”

“But—”

“Please? Mister Pines left me in charge (or, at least, the woman he’s dating—maybe?—did), and I’m already messing it up! I can’t mess it up further! Please?”

The kids exchanged a look. Then, Norman banged his head against the table in defeat; it was obvious that they were going to help . . . and _not_ plan for the impending attack by a supernatural terror, or how to thwart it and save the missing children and his ghost friends. Because, obviously, the gift shop was a bigger priority then making sure they wouldn’t be devoured (or something) before the next day.

“I’ll take the register,” Mabel volunteered.

“Then I’ll go get changed into my suit and eyepatch to help on tour duty,” her brother decided, already headed out the door after Soos. “Where _is_ Wendy, by the way?”

“Dunno. She might be rehearsing for tonight with . . .”

Whatever the rest of the handyman’s answer was, Norman couldn’t hear it; they were both already too far gone from his earshot.

The second she comes up, he forgets all about you. You will never be his prior—

Norman imagined Dipper wearing an eyepatch. Norman imagined Dipper wearing a _suit_. Both of those were pretty happy thoughts. Then, resignedly, he asked Mabel, “What about me? I don’t know how to lead tours or work the register or anything u-useful here.”

“Come with me,” she said. “I could use the help in the gift shop.”

“Ffffffine . . .” he sighed, slouching upright after her.

This left Elaine alone in the kitchen, floating invisibly in the middle of the room, and continuing her knitting. But she paused once and smiled to herself. {Mmmmm . . . Sexy, hot TV doctors . . .}

****

The door to room #701 of the Repose Inn opened slowly with the sort of oily silence that only luxury vacation money can buy. Holding a tray of breakfast foods, the soft, round man peeked inside.

The man with hard, sharp features like a knife was still in bed, even though it was after ten—an hour at which only the indolent, slovenly, and unprofessional would be inactive! And what’s worse, his back was to the door—exposed to whichever enemies might slip inside to stab or shoot or garrote or poison-blow-dart him while he slept! This was so unlike him . . . Truly worrying . . . The soft, round man sat worriedly on the edge of the bed. “Ehehehehehe?”

“Si, mi amigo,” the bedridden assassin replied, his voice as hoarse as a raven’s. “I am awake.”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si, I am still in bed even at this hour. But I have hardly slept, so it balances out, I think.”

Setting the tray of foods on the bed, the soft, round man tried to think of something to say. Nothing inspirational came to mind, however.

Eventually, the man with hard, sharp features rolled around to face his partner. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion was unshaven, his breath was rank with booze. “Si, I am still in bed even at this hour. And what does it matter, mi amigo? Destiny no longer favors us . . . The Deck of Providence tells us nothing . . . La Contable is gone forever, and our reputation shall soon follow after her . . . We are not the world’s greatest assassins now, just talented killers with tastes that will soon be prohibitively expensive . . . So what does it matter if I stay in bed all day, mi amigo? What does it matter?”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si, I have not checked this morning. Why bother? For days the cards reveal nothing. Why should today be any different? Destiny has turned its back on us, mi amigo . . . Why bother?”

“Ehehehehehe.”

With a sigh, the man with hard, sharp features heaved himself upright. “Si, mi amigo . . . For you, I will try another futile attempt . . . You know I cannot deny you anything—even a fruitless effort . . .” Without bothering to put his clothes on, he drew the cards and shambled into the marble bathroom. He shuffled the deck seven times, slouched in the center of the circle, and launched the cards into the air. Before the last had pinwheeled to the ground, he snapped, “You see? Useless! Useless as we now—”

“Ehehehehehe!”

Blinking, he looked in disbelief where the soft, round man now pointed. The cards nearly all lay on the northward line, with perhaps half of them facing upward.

“S-si . . . Si! Sisisisi!” the man with hard, sharp features shouted excitedly. “Destiny, he speaks once more to us! He speaks of La Contable! She is . . . on the move . . . Going north of here . . . to a town named for the Holy City . . . Salem. Salem in Oregon! Ha! She will be there tonight! But she will not be alone this time . . . Look,” he pointed to where two cards lay almost perfectly next to each other, askew just enough so that the figures upon them seemed to hold hands: the High Priestess and the Magician. The card of the Lovers rested perpendicularly over them.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si, it seems she has found a lover. How sweet. We may have to kill him, too. And together they go to . . . dance? Mi amigo, look online to see where one can dance in Salem, Oregon tonight.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si, gracias . . . So she and her ‘Magician’ lover will be dancing in Salem tonight . . . What have you found?” the man with hard, sharp features like a knife asked the soft, round man. Examining the latter assassin’s portable device, a thin smile—thin as a blade—appeared on the first assassin’s face. “This is it, this ‘Dance for the Cure’ by the International Tango Federation. They will be there. The more I look at the cards, the more sure I am. We will catch her because of her dancing yet again! Come, we must depart at once, mi amigo, for it is a long drive to Oregon! Let us be done with this thrice-accursed mission!”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si! I shall get dressed! Help me gather these cards, and I shall shower! You can gather our belongings and pack them while I do! Jajaja! Today, we return to our work!”

They flurried the cards together in one heap, too excited to even face them all in the same direction. Had either of them been in less of a hurry, they might have discovered that the Death card (which the man with hard, sharp features like a knife had forgotten to remove from the deck this time in his indifference) lay hidden _almost_ completely beneath the High Priestess and the Magician. It leered upwards, too.

For death was certain with la Contable . . . Death had _always _been certain . . .

****

The obstacle was being carefully distanced from a second support, and would soon be beyond its help for good. Just a few more, carefully placed ripples . . .

But, in the meantime, now was the time to remove another support.

It was time to make the fourth ripple.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

****

“EXCELLENT, MY CHILDREN! BUT DO NOT FORGET TO EXTEND YOUR ARMS WHILE YOU TWIRL!” Daniel “Manly Dan” Corduroy praised his valiant offspring—children who could fell a tree with one hand and lead a partner through dozens of different dance steps with the other . . . AT THE SAME TIME, EVEN! Because, as he often boasted, “MANLY DAN HAS THE MANLIEST FAM!” Yes, the children of a man who was _unironically_ called “Manly Dan” had been raised since birth to do both—to handle lumberjack axes AND dance partners. To his manbearded mind, this was no contradiction; there was no irony in this fact; the only thing manlier than cutting down a tree was cutting up a rug with such suave sophistication that people would be falling left and right at the sight of it. Even his eldest, a beautiful, graceful daughter (who more took after her mother in terms of physical appearance) was manlier than all the boys in town where it really counted: her ability to take an axe OR a dance partner in hand and make it do whatever she wanted with such calm confidence that neither axe NOR dance partner would ever think to question her right to lead. One of his proudest moments as a father had been the first time she took a boy’s hand on the ballroom dance floor and put the boy through _his_ paces (watching that boy’s face go from complacence to confusion to acceptance to worried effort—as he strove to keep up with the daughter—had made Manly Dan so happy he had bench-pressed the buffet table).

“Like . . . this, Dad?” the second son asked, twirling on the spot.

“NO! LIKE . . . THIS!” And Manly Dan demonstrated the move again. “LIKE YOU’RE PUNCHING SOMEONE, BUT WITH AN OPEN HAND! SEE WHAT I’M DOING? LIKE . . . THIS!”

His four children watched him demonstrate it several times in a row, each time perfectly synchronized with the music. It was such a beautiful, manly display, that they all began to chant on the beat. “Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!”

“NOW YOU ALL TRY! WENDY, YOU AND WENTWORTH DO IT TOGETHER; YOU TWO CAN’T BE TOO PRACTICED FOR YOUR TEAM COMPETITION TONIGHT!”

With a breezy sigh, Wendy took the hand of her eldest little brother. “Okay, Dad.” Then, she twirled around his handhold (doing the requisite arm extension for extra flair), took a step forward, and twirled him (so he could mirror her).

“YES! EXCELLENT! TONIGHT, YOU WILL SURELY WIN!”

They will be performing with a live accordionist. They haven’t practiced enough with him.

“AT LEAST, YOU WILL IF YOU AND YOUR ACCOMPANIMENT ARE PERFECTLY SYNCED. HMM . . . WHY IS SOOS NOT HERE, REHEARSING WITH US? AND, COME TO THINK OF IT, WHY AREN’T YOU AND HE REHEARSING TOGETHER _IN SALEM IN YOUR COSTUMES_? THE COMPETITION’S ONLY SIX HOURS AWAY!”

“Dad, the event _starts_ at six. The competition won’t be until, like, eight,” Wendy pointed out. “And it’s only, like, a four-hour drive to Salem from here. Not even that.”

“IRREGARDLESS, IF WE ARE TO WIN, WE MUST BE FAMILIAR WITH THE TERRAIN OF BATTLE AND THE FEEL OF OUR WAR GARB AS WE MOVE IN IT! THIS SHALL GIVE US ADDITIONAL TIME TO PRACTICE!”

“Uh, Dad, it’s just a dance competition. It’s not like we’re going to war,” the second son said.

“WRONG, MY CHILD! EVERY DANCE IS A WAR, AND EVERY WAR IS A DANCE! ALL OF LIFE IS BOTH A DANCE AND AWAR, AND THAT IS WHY WE CORDUROYS ARE INVINCIBLE AT BOTH! WE UNDERSTAND THE TRUTH OF THE DANCE-WAR-WAR-DANCE!”

Both Wendy and Wentworth sighed. The latter said, “Here we go again . . . Way to go, Wilbur, you set him off on the dance-war-war-dance speech. Way. To. Go.”

“NO! NOW IS NOT A TIME FOR SPEECHES!” Manly Dan declared. “NOW IS A TIME TO PREPARE FOR WAR! MY CHILDREN, FETCH YOUR OUTFITS AND YOUR LUGGAGE! WE DEPART AT ONCE TO SALEM! AND WE SHALL TAKE SOOS WITH US, SO THAT WE ARE CERTAIN HE WILL ARRIVE ON TIME!”

“Uh, Dad, I don’t think he can just—”

“NO TIME TO BE REASONABLE, MY CHILDREN! GO! FOR GLORY! GO! GO! GO!”

The three boys immediately sprinted for the house to grab their things. Wendy heaved an enormous sigh and dragged after them.

“HEY, WENDY?” her dad called after her. When she looked back, he gave her two thumbs up. “YOU’RE DOING AMAZING, PUMPKIN. YOU AND YOUR BROTHER ARE GOINNA THRASH ‘EM TONIGHT.”

She rolled her eyes, but still smiled a little. “Thanks, Dad.”

****

“We’re almost out of size large shirts!” Norman shouted over the fray.

“Which ones?” Mabel shouted back from behind the register, even as she took money and returned change from tourists.

“The question mark ones!”

“Have you checked in the storage closet?”

“I’m _in_ the closet, Mabel! Like, _right_ _now_! Right in the middle of the closet!”

And, floating just beneath the ceiling, Elaine chuckled to herself.

“And I can’t find any of those shirts in that size!” Norman continued to shout.

“Well, then . . . Grab whatever size large shirts you can find, and put them on the rack! Better to have something than nothing for the chum . . . er, for _the_ _customers_ to buy—that’s what Gruncle Stan always says!”

“Ffffffine . . .” Norman groused. “It’s not like we’re w-wasting our time today working when we need to be p-planning for tonight, or any—”

Suddenly, a wave of cold passed through the Medium. He shivered so hard that he tensed up into a curl like a peelbug. He even bumped into the closet’s shelves.

No amount of planning will save you. He will come, he will take you all, and there is nothing—

“No!” Norman hissed at himself. “Don’t think that! Think about—”

Dipper (with his thick hair slicked across his forehead like a 1940s businessman, and wearing a neat charcoal suit, a magenta bowtie, and an eyepatch) passed in front of the closet door. He was gesturing widely at the gift shop and telling his tour group, “The _real_ mystery here at the Mystery Shack, of course, is how we manage to keep our prices so low with all this quality merchandise available! Please feel free to look around and buy a thing or two or three to remember your visit today—and maybe a few for your family and friends, just to remind them that you care! You _do_ care about them, _don’t you_? Well, you must _not_ really care about them, if you’re _not_ buying them a gift.”

“. . . that . . . Think about _that_, instead,” Norman counseled himself. “Since seeing that _is_ a pretty big fringe benefit of . . . this whole being stuck here working development . . .”

Then, mostly because it let him see more of Dipper in a suit (and partly because it allowed him to actually finish the task Mabel had given him), Norman grabbed an armful of size large shirts (some were puma shirts, some were panther shirts) and went to go hang them up on the rack in the gift shop.

For that reason, all three kids were present when Soos stuck his head in the crowded room. “Hey, um, dudes! Great work handling everything with me! We couldn’t’ve wrangled these rubes any better if Mister Pines himself was present.”

“Uh, we’re standing right here, and we can hear you,” one of said rubes huffed indignantly. “I, for one, do not appreciate being called a—”

“Sssh! Ssssssh . . .” Soos responded, placing one finger over the rube’s lips. “Stress will make you not enjoy your souvenir-shopping experience. Take this bobblehead of the original Mister Mystery when you go to check out. Pay for it.” Then, addressing the kids once more, Soos continued, “Anyway, things are winding back down again, I think. So, um, I’m gonna quickly run back over to my house for just a sec. Just to drop off my accordion and outfit from last night.”

“But what if more tourists show up?” Dipper protested. “You can see what a mad house this place is already, man!”

“This is the busiest day we’ve had in weeks—maybe even months,” Mabel agreed.

{And what if that monster shows up again?} Elaine posited aloud. {Though I suppose there are plenty of people here to keep it at bay, what with it apparently being the busiest day in weeks . . .}

Making a soothing gesture, Soos resolutely maintained, “I know, dudes, which is why I’m only going to be gone for a few minutes. Ten tops. I’m just dropping off my stuff, ‘cause it just barely sorta occurred to me that . . . Well, that Mister Pines might’ve been okay with their existence last night, but that doesn’t mean he will be when he gets back. Especially if they’re still in the Shack. That just occurred to me just now. Just sorta—boom—popped into my head.”

“Can’t you do that later?” Mabel asked.

“Yeah, but . . . Dudes, I just get this bad feeling that if I don’t do it right now . . .”

Dipper sighed, then resigned himself to this annoying but tolerable development. “Just hurry back. Okay, man? We’ve already been going non-stop for hours.”

“Dudes, you got it. I’ll even pick up pizza for lunch. An awesome lunch for an awesome crew!”

“You rock, Soos!” Mabel called after him. Then she turned back to the boys. “Norm, we need more snow globes! Dip, we’ve got more tourists pulling into the parking lot!”

“I am gonna kill Stan and . . . have a firm talking to with Wendy for not being here today . . . Like, seriously, where is she?” Dipper grumbled. Then he plastered a smile across his face and hustled out the door, shouting, “WELCOME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, TO THE MYSTERY SHACK!”

****

“SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, MA’AM, BUT WE’RE LOOKING FOR SOOS. HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?” Manly Dan asked of the sweet, little, old Latina with his manly cap in his manly hand—as is only right when I real manly man addresses a lady.

She shook her head. “He spend the night at the Shack and is working there today.”

That bemused Wendy. “What? I thought he got today off like me for that dance competition up in Salem. That’s what he told me, like, weeks ago, anyway. He say anything different to you, Abuelita?”

The sweet, little, old Latina shrugged. “Last night he tell me that he need to stay there to make los mellizos feel safe from a monster. I do not hear anything since then from him.”

“THEN WE’LL GO TO THE SHACK NOW. THANK YOU, MA’AM!”

Before Manly Dan and his manly clan could climb back into his manly sedan truck, however, Soos pulled up to the house. “Hey, dudes! Hey, Wendy! Hey, Abuelita!” he called cheerily as he climbed out of his own truck with costume and accordion in hand. “What’s up?”

“WE HAVE COME TO GIVE YOU A RIDE TO SALEM!” Manly Dan proclaimed. “BOYS, HELP HIM WITH HIS THINGS!”

“Oh, dang, dawg, is that today?” Soos exclaimed as the boys pulled said objects out of his arms. “Dudes, I’m really sorry, but something’s come up back at the Shack and—Whoa!”

At that second, Manly Dan scooped up Soos as easily as he would have scooped up a felled tree (which is to say: very easily), carried him over to his manly truck, and deposited him inside.

“But, dudes, you don’t understand!”

“WHAT I UNDERSTAND IS THAT WENDY AND WENTWORTH CAN’T BE VICTORIOUS IN SALEM WITHOUT YOUR SUPPLE HANDS TICKLING THE ACCORDION, SO TO SALEM YOUR SUPPLE HANDS NOW MUST GO! FOR THE GLORY OF THE CORDUROYS! BELT HIM TO THE SEAT, MY CHILDREN!”

And the boys did as instructed, even as Soos protested that the kids needed him at the Shack.

Wendy, for her part, slid into her seat behind him and advised her friend and coworker, “Just go with it. There’s no way Dad’s gonna change his mind now that he’s got his blood up for a dance-war-war-dance anyway, so you might as well just enjoy the crazy ride.”

“But the kids!”

“Oh, don’t worry about them; they’re technically teens now, and both surprisingly mature for their age. I’m sure they’ll be fine. Besides, Stan and them can handle things without us for a day.”

“But Stan isn’t—”

The rev of Manly Dan’s truck (which used diesel, of course, because it was—as previously stated—a _manly_ sedan truck) drowned out the rest of the handyman’s words. As did its driver’s battle cry, “GRAGHUAGH! TO DANCE-WAR-WAR-DANCE, MY CHILDREN . . . AND PASSENGER!”

From her doorstep, the sweet, little, old Latina waved goodbye. “Have fun! I go clean your room and read your diary now!”

****

“Can I take this blindfold off now?”

“No, not yet, mi eStanford.”

“Esmerelsa, honey-pie sugar-pot kitten-dumpling, I’ve had this thing on for _hours_ at this point. And it’s not _nearly_ as much fun as I thought it was going to be when we first started,” the old man sulked. “Honestly, wearing this thing while riding around in a car for _hours_ is . . . just plain boring. And I’m kinda starting to lose patience with your whole secrecy thing.”

“It is to esurprise you,” she reminded him soothingly.

“Yeah, I get that, but can’t it be a surprise with me at least knowing where we’re driving to?”

“Patience . . . Just a little longer, mi eStanford; we are almost there.”

He crossed his arms and grumbled to himself, but accepted remaining blindfolded.

Then, after a few more minutes (and a few stops and turns that suggested to Stan that they had entered a city), she pulled to the side of the street and announced, “Estamos aqui! You can look now!”

After unbinding his eyes, Stan blinked in the bright sunlight at the terrain surrounding them. They appeared to be downtown in a major city—one which was _not_ bogged down in a frigid fog—and were outside a swanky-looking building labeled “Hotel Jeru, Salem”. A marquee before it announced “Proudly Hosting the International Tango Federation’s Dance for the Cure! Sign-Up Still Available!”

“I have brought us here for a night alone together. A night of tango together, like in Bogota. Esept now, you and I will not tango to escape Columbia and El Cartel,” Esmerelsa affirmed in a passionate whisper. “No, we will tango to escape this world and all its—how do you esay?—estresses. To find a place for only you and I, where we can decide our future together without worry for los chicos or your eShack.”

It was a glittering prospect, like gold . . . or perhaps more like silver, since that was her color. Stan had to admit, it was beguiling. But mention of the kids brought him out of the momentary fantasy. “You know I can’t. Leave the Shack or Gravity Falls, I mean. It’s the only home the kids know now, and they need a stable home after . . . everything that’s happened to them.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” she affirmed. “I do not mean for you to leave your eShack. Claro que no. I mean for you to not worry about it today, eso we can think clearly when we decide how we want our future to be.”

“Well . . . A night out—_really_ out—does sound nice . . .” he admitted. “When’s this thing start?”

“A los seiz. At six this evening.”

“_Six_?” Stan repeated disbelievingly. “That’s nearly four hours away! We won’t get home ‘til after _midnight_! At the _earliest_! I can’t leave the kids alone for that long!”

“Claro que si, mi eStanford. They are adolescentes, and can be trusted to take care of themselves for esingle night,” Esmerelsa insisted. “Besides, they are not alone; I told your eSoos that he is in charge of them and the eShack until we return tomorrow.”

“Nuuuughhh . . . That doesn’t really reassure me . . .”

With a sigh, she stated, “This is what I am espeaking about. You are eso . . . eso occupado with the estresses of the day-to-day that you no pleasure yourself in the moment.”

Stan was scandalized. “What?!”

“eSorry. I espeak from the heart, and eso my English esuffers. I mean . . . Can you no take time for _us_? For _I_? You care for los chicos. You love them. This is good and admirable—you are a good and admirable man. But you take no time for _yourself_. For _Iself_ . . . no, for _my_self. For _usself_. Rah! Ourself . . . ves. For _ourselves_.”

“Oh,” Stan said, understanding her meaning. Then, really understanding her meaning, he said, “Oh . . . Is that . . . Is that how you feel?”

Reluctantly, she answered, “. . . Si.”

“So the idea’s that we spend an evening (and also a night) alone, block out all those distractions, and really think about . . . us? Just us?” he surmised.

“Si.”

“What we want and how to make it work?”

“Si. That is the idea.”

“Y’know, I think I can go along with that . . . After all—heh!—how much trouble could the kids get into in _just_ _one_ _night_, right? Haha!”

“Exactamente. Now, come, we must purchase you esome new clothing for tonight,” she decreed as she started up the car again.

“Uh . . .” Taken aback, Stan asked, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?”

“Nothing . . . if you are going to work in the eShack tonight. But you are not. No, tonight, you are going to a gala for the tango, and we are going to eshow them all how to really dance! eSo we must look the part!” she said like only a hot-blooded Latina woman can. Then she added, “Also, we are going to need esome especial masks.”

“Masks?” he repeated, perplexed. “Why masks?”

“Because this time, not like in Bogota, we are going to be of the—how do you esay?—incognito. Masks to hide our faces and false names to hide our identities—”

“Oh, I got plenty of those to choose from,” Stan chuckled.

“—eso that El Cartel will not find us this time. I will not lead them to us by being eso estupida a escond time—”

“Plus, if we pay for everything with cash, we prob’ly won’t even have to give names.”

Esmerelsa laughed in open merriment. “Mi eStanford, I love that you understand already what it means to live as an anonymous.”

“Hey, they don’t call me ‘Mister Mystery’ just ‘cause that’s how I introduce myself at the Shack, and punch them in the kidneys if they call me something else.”

****

Your time is slipping away. Every second takes you closer to your doom. And there is nothing—

“Dipper in a suit,” Norman whispered to himself.

And, as if on cue, the not-currently-behatted-but-presently-besuited boy guided the next tour group into the gift shop. “The _real_ mystery here at the Mystery Shack, of course, is how we manage to keep our prices so low with all this quality merchandise available! Please feel free to look around and buy a thing or two or three to remember your visit today—and maybe a few for your family and friends, just to remind them that you care! You _do_ care about them, _don’t you_? Well, you must _not_ really care about them, if you’re _not_ buying them a gift or six.”

It made Norman smile every time. Because every Norman is crazy for a sharp dressed Dipper.

“How you holding up, Bro-Bro?” Mabel asked from behind the register, even as she was kept moving by the line of souvenir-frenzied tourists.

For a brief moment, Dipper’s salesman’s smile evaporated. “Where. The fricative heck. Is Soos?”

“Maybe there was a line at the pizza place?” she suggested.

“Even if the _entire town_ was getting a pizza ahead of him, it wouldn’t have taken this long! It’s been nearly two hours since he left!”

Elaine nearly dropped her transparent knitting needles at that affirmation. {Oh my . . . You don’t think that Slender creature got him, do you?}

It did. You know it did.

The Medium gulped, then transmitted his grandmother’s question.

“No, it’s still daylight,” Dipper stated, but with less than complete conviction.

Norman added helpfully, “B-besides, Soos is an adult.”

As one, both twins went “Nyuuuh . . .”

{But he’s a full-grown man!} Elaine asserted.

“Yeah, he’s a full-grown man!” the Medium chorused.

Mabel conceded, “He is definitely _legally_ an adult. But . . .”

Dipper shrugged. “I think the term ‘man-child’ is more appropriate than ‘man’.”

“Which is why he’s awesome sauce,” Mabel added quickly.

“Oh, definitely. Soos is totally the coolest guy I know,” Dipper agreed. “Love him to death.”

“But . . .”

“Yeah. But . . .”

Norman groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Behind them, a tourist cleared his throat brusquely. “Hey, could we get some service here?”

The twins both affixed a salesman’s smile to their faces. But Mabel demanded, “Do you mind?” and Dipper snapped, “We are trying to determine if our friend is still on this earthly plane!”

“Well . . . If they aren’t, is that likely to change in the next minute?” the tourist countered.

“Er . . . I suppose not?” Mabel admitted.

“Then you can ring this up now.” And the tourist dropped his merchandise on the counter. “Unless you’d rather I take my tourism elsewhere? Frankly, I should be getting a discount on everything, since I never even got meet that ‘Mister Mystery’ the internet promised me.”

The smiles did not drop from their near identical faces, but the twins’ eyes went steely.

{Oh my. Best step back now, Normy dear.}

But the Medium had already done so on his own, and was looking for cover; he was no fool.

Brother and sister faced one another.

“We don’t need this. Especially not today.”

“But Gruncle Stan would never forgive us if we turned away this much business.”

“I’ve already given the tour to over sixty people, though.”

“Seriously? Whoa.”

The tourist cleared his throat with a pointed “ahem”. The line behind them was starting to rumble impatiently, too.

“In. A. Second. Ladies and Gentleman. Yeah, Mabel, and that was just by _myself_. Imagine how many Soos got before he left.”

“Yeah . . . Plus, we’ve nearly cleaned out the gift shop.”

Norman interjected from behind the shelter of the postcards, “And the closet!”

“Seriously? Whoa.”

“Yeah, it _has_ been super productive. So I guess you’re right: We don’t need this.”

The tourist clapped his hands twice. “Let’s move it, you two! Chop-chop!”

Elaine gaped. {Oh, no, he did not just—}

“Oh, yes, he did!” her grandson answered as he retreated back to the closet.

Indignantly, Mabel repeated, “‘Chop-chop’?!”

With a snarled “How dare you?!”, Dipper swept the tourist’s merchandise onto the floor.

Mabel leapt onto the counter then. “‘CHOP-CHOP’?!” she shrilled in the tourist’s face.

Dipper leapt up beside his sister to bellow, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE MYSTERY SHACK IS NOW CLOSED FOR THE DAY!”

“PLEASE FEEL FREE TO COME BACK ANY TIME!” Mabel shrieked. “EXCEPT FOR _THIS_ JERK, ‘CAUSE THE MYSTERY SHACK DOES NOT NEED OR WHAT _HIS_ BUSINESS!”

“THANK YOU AND GET OUT! EXCEPT FOR YOU, JERK! FOR YOU, IT’S JUST ‘GET OUT’!”

The tourist in question turned up his nose in an indignant snit. The line behind him, however, did not disperse.

“WELL?! WHAT EXACTLY IS UNCLEAR ABOUT ‘THANK YOU AND GET OUT’?!”

A different, meeker tourist—a tourist with full arms and a trembling lip—stammered, “B-but . . . how will I show my friends and family that I care about them?”

Sister and brother exchanged a look. Then they both sighed.

“FINE!” Mabel shouted. “IF YOU’RE IN LINE RIGHT NOW, WE’LL STILL TAKE YOUR MONEY!”

“EXCEPT FOR YOU!” Dipper pointed balefully at the first tourist, who still had his nose in the air. “BECAUSE WE ARE TOO GOOD FOR _YOUR_ MONEY!”

“Well, I never!”

“M-maybe you should!” Norman heckled from inside the closet. “You might enjoy it!”

This earned a tension-breaking laugh from the room at large, and was the perfect accompaniment to the first tourist’s ignominious exit from the Shack. Most everyone thought he had been a stuck-up jerk, and was pleased to see him (as a representative of all rude customers everywhere) be shamed by the retailers he had just tried to bully.

Fifteen minutes later, the gift shop, the museum, and the parking lot were all empty. Dipper (though still in his suit) was once again wearing his cap (and had regained all of his depth perception by removing the eyepatch). While Mabel was in the other room, trying to reach Soos over the telephone, he was tabulating the day’s earnings so that they could officially close the Mystery Shack for the day.

And Norman was sitting beside Dipper, contemplating Dipper’s whole aspect . . . the suit and tie, the bright and uncovered eyes, the cap with the blue pine tree on a white field . . . He decided Dipper had never looked better than at that exact moment—even with the incongruous clash of his fancy outfit and his frayed cap. Perhaps specifically because of that clash; the look was just so . . . so “Dipper”. Furthermore, when Dipper (while calculating some numbers) stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth, Norman also wondered how it was possible that anyone could be that cute . . . and what it would be like if he were to lean in and kiss Dipper on the cheek . . .

Then Elaine innocently advised him, {It’s not polite to stare, Normy dear. Nor is it _discreet_.}

The Medium snapped out of his reverie, instantly blooming as red as a rose over being caught. But, fortunately, Dipper hadn’t noticed—only his grandmother. His kneejerk reaction was to protest that he _hadn’t_ been starring, but he thought better of it. Better, he judged, to not call the sort of attention to himself that really mattered (i.e. Dipper’s). Instead, he slunk away from his chair and stammered, “Er . . . Sh-should I go, uh . . . lock the d-doors, or . . . something?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. I’ll be done with this in just a second though,” the behatted boy answered without looking up.

A short retreat later, Norman was through the hallway to the front door and throwing the bolt. Then he leaned against the locked door and just tried to catch his breath. His heart felt like it was going a mile per minute, and he wasn’t certain if he was going to throw up or not, yet he couldn’t stop smiling for some reason.

After a moment, Elaine popped her spectral head through the wall. She had a rather knowing smile teasing at her lips. {Everything okay? It’s just you ran out so fast, I was starting to wonder if you were going to bolt the door . . . or bolt out the door.}

“Graaandmaaa!” the Medium fussed, but not unhappily.

{So everything’s fine?}

“Yes, okay?! Everything’s great!”

{Okay.}

Before she could disappear back through the wall, though, he added, “I wasn’t staring.”

{Oh, Normy. You were going to burn a hole right through the side of his face, you were staring so intensely. Not that there’s any problem with that,} she assured him. {Just be a little more . . . discreet. Or people might get the wrong impression.} Then, in an undertone, she added, {Or the right one.}

“I . . . Um . . . O-okay, Grandma.”

Mabel came down the hallway then, with Waddles following close after. She glanced around. “Who you talking to?”

“J-just Grandma.”

“Oh . . . You okay, Norm? Your face is beet red.”

“Oh, I w-was just gonna . . . um . . . H-hey, is the kitchen door locked?”

“Uh . . . Yeah, I think so. Why?” Mabel asked.

“Oh, I just th-thought we should lock all the doors and windows. S-since we’re here alone now.”

It won’t matter. Locked doors and windows did not save—

“S-since you, _Dipper_, _and_ _me_ are here alone,” Norman added more precisely.

“You ain’t kidding about that ‘alone’ part,” Mabel said, clearly vexed. “Soos is _not_ coming back.”

“W-what?!”

Mabel nodded towards the gift shop. “C’mon. Dipper’ll wanna hear this, too.” A moment later, she said, “Got some bad ne—”

“Tap-Dancing Moses!” the behatted boy burst out. “We made $1,543.69 tooday!”

Mabel’s jaw dropped (as did Norman’s and Elaine’s). “For serious?! That’ll make Gruncle Stan real happy!”

“Nuts to _him_! _We’re_ the ones who earned this money; I say we get an X-CubeStation4!”

“Ooo! Ooo! Let’s order genuine, faux-mink coats! And pinky rings with _huuuuuuuge_ diamonds!”

Norman cleared his throat. “M-maybe we do all that _after_ we’re no longer b-being stalked by a malevolent sentience from beyond a Cursed Door?”

Mabel sighed. “Your friend is a killjoy.”

“He’s _your_ friend now, too,” her brother pointed out.

“Yeah, but he’s been _your_ friend longer.”

{Lucky for him, I say,} Elaine grumbled in her grandson’s support.

“Lucky for me, I say,” Dipper said almost immediately after . . . which made Norman smile.

Mabel rolled her eyes. “Anyway, what I was gonna say when I came back in is that Soos is _not_ coming back. According to Abuelita, he got kidnapped.”

Her brother did not have a drink, but he somehow still did a spit take. “Wait, _what_?!”

“Yeah, Manly Dan and his manly clan (including Wendy) apparently drove up and kidnapped him a little after he left here. Abuelita said there’s a major tango competition today in Salem that he’s been writing about in his diary for, like, weeks; he’s basically the Corduroy’s family accordionist, it souds like.”

Dipper pursed his lips. “That . . . explains a lot, in retrospect. Like all the talk of practice and rehearsals, and that time I came down to find him playing while she danced . . . and got a private lesson all to myself . . .” he added, happy remembrance tinging his face.

“Heh! Down, boy!” Mabel teased him.

“Er, uh . . . Still . . . I can’t believe Soos would just ditch us like that.”

“Especially after l-last night,” Norman added.

“Heck, I was thinking especially after he was left in charge of the Shack by Stan (or his . . . do you still call them ‘girlfriends’ when they’re probably over sixty?).”

{Depends on whether or not you want to get whacked with a cane. What a question!}

“Well, he may not have actually ‘ditched’ us per se,” Mabel defended the absent handyman. “Abuelita made it pretty clear Manly Dan and his sons used their manly hands to literally pick up Soos and strap him into their manly van. Er, truck. I meant ‘truck’. So . . . yeah. Literally kidnapped him. To be their accordion monkey in a dance competition.”

“And you couldn’t r-reach him directly?” Norman asked.

“I tried, but he has a cellphone. And, well . . .” She made a gesture out the window, at the fog that seemed to have brought a week-long electromagnetic disturbance with it.

“Right . . .” Dipper hung his head and sighed. “No Stan. No Wendy, either. And now, no Soos. Looks like I was right before; we really are on our own here.”

“Th-there’s still my parents,” Norman offered half-heartedly.

His grandmother smiled wryly. {And their baseball bats.}

“S-so . . . now what?” Norman asked.

Dipper straightened up and cracked his knuckles. “Now . . . we _plan_!”

“Sh-shouldn’t we finish locking up, first?”

“. . . Okay, good point. Now we lock up. And then . . . we _plan_!”

“Bro-Bro, shouldn’t we also hide that pile of riches you got on the counter?”

“. . . Okay, yes, that’s also a good point. First, we put this frankly ludicrous amount of money under the loose board beneath the rug in Stan’s office (until he comes back and can put it in the safe). Then we lock up. And _then_ . . . we plan!” But Dipper didn’t move after that dramatic pronouncement for a long moment. “. . . Ship . . .” he finally muttered.

Mabel grinned. “You thought of something else, didn’t you?”

“Maybe . . .”

“You wanna change out of your suit first, don’t you?”

“So much . . .”

Involuntarily, Norman went, “Awwww . . .”

Dipper cleared his throat awkwardly. “So, yeah, all of that other stuff I said first. AND THEN . . . WE PLAN!”


	21. Chapter 21

It was after four o’clock in the afternoon when Mister Andrew Alcatraz and his wife Consuela checked in at the Hotel Jeru, Salem. They paid up front in cash for a suite without batting an eyelash (despite the elevated prices which the International Tango Federation’s event that night had caused). They had no luggage beyond an extremely fancy change of clothing and two boxes from De Gys and Son Master Maskmakers (“Cover Your Face to Uncover Your Soul.”), so they did not require a bellhop. Unassisted, they took the elevator up to their room and hooked the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob.

Once there, Stan set and draped their few things on the couch (and Esmerelsa immediately straightened them to ninety degree angles), and sunk gratefully onto the king size bed. “Well, looks like we got about two hours until this shindig of yours starts _Missus_ Alcatraz . . .”

She grinned. Of all the aliases he had had ready, she had liked the sound of that one best. And the “Missus” part . . . she had particularly liked that it had been _his_ suggestion for them to pose as a married couple. Plus, any occasion to be called “Consuela” (the sound of which she had always loved) was welcome. “Oh, si? What eshall we do with this time . . . mi _marido_?”

“Mmm . . . I’ve got a few _ideas_ . . .”

“eSuch as?”

“What if I just . . . put this hand _here_ . . . annnnnd press down a little with my fingers?”

“Oh, si! Do that!”

“You like that, huh? Well then, maybe I’ll use my other hand to do . . . _this_. While I spin it a little like so in a _clockwise_ direction. You like that, too?”

“Oh, si! Si, mi eStanford! Do that!”

“You want more, baby?”

“You know I do . . . Please do not stop . . .”

“Heh. Yeah, I bet you do . . . Okay, how’s _this_?”

“Mmm, si . . . Perfecto . . .”

Stan nodded knowingly, like a man who knows how to please his woman, then straightened up from the room’s standard issue alarm clock. He had just set it for a quarter past five pm. “That should give us a solid hour to nap before we need to get up and ready for this tango thing downstairs.”

“You know just how to treat a chica.”

“Don’t I just?” Stan asked as he kicked off his shoes and lounged on top of the bedspread.

Smiling, she removed his glasses and set them beside the alarm clock. Then, kicking off her own (and only taking one second to arrange hers and his together in perfect parallel lines beside the couch), she lounged beside him.

The old man wrapped an arm around the woman who was no longer middle aged. He rasped, “I’m actually really glad we came.”

“As am I,” Esmerelsa whispered back.

Then, within a minute, they had both slipped into the sort of open-mouthed unconsciousness which only old people can achieve in so short a time. And they did it together, in each other’s arms.

It was sweet in the wrinkly, wheezy, musty-smelling sort of way.

****

{Is he _serious_?! He _can’t_ be serious!}

In front of his grandmother (and a lot paler than usual), the Medium gulped. “L-_looks_ pretty serious . . .”

Mistaking his meaning, Mabel made a dismissive wave. No doubt, she meant to be reassuring; she made a mistake in how she choose to express that, too. “It never hurts as much as you think it will.”

“S-sorry, I was . . . t-talking to Grandma. She d-didn’t think Dipper was serious about this.”

{Oh, yes I did. I’m just expressing my disapproval through sarcasm,} Elaine contended.

With one arm poised over a bowl and a knife poised against it (just past the crook of his elbow), Dipper looked up in surprise. “What? She thought I was _joking_ when I said we all need to contribute one cup of blood for this blood magic ritual to work?”

“I . . . g-guess?”

“I would _never_ joke about blood magic. It’s a very serious matter.

Mabel cracked a brace-faced smile. “I would, but . . . hemo serious than me.”

“Terrible . . . And you mean ‘hemo serious than _I_’. _Grammar_, Mabel,” her brother grumbled, even as he made a precise incision into his own flesh—like it was the most routine thing in the world.

{Holy Bloody Marys for Sunday brunch!}

What blood was left in Norman’s face drained right out of it. “Wow, that’s . . . that’s really . . .”

Mabel was at his side in an instant. “Whoa, Ghost Pants! Let’s get you sitting down. Okay?”

Elaine was on the other side. {Normy, dear, take a deep breath.}

“O . . . kay . . .”

Unable to move from his post above the bowl, Dipper shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Norman. The first time is always the roughest. I should’ve had you sit down first. Although, seriously, did you think there wouldn’t be any bloodletting in this? I mean, it’s called ‘blood magic’ for a reason.”

“I’m . . . I’m okay . . . It’s just—seeing _you_ bleed . . . cut . . .”

Mabel got the taller boy into a chair, then pushed his spikey head down between his knees. “Just breathe,” she instructed him. “Deep breaths in. One. Two. Deep breaths out. One. Two. Good. Now I’m gonna get you some of my patented ‘Mabel Juice’; if that doesn’t increase your blood sugar, than you’re prob’ly already dead.”

Her brother made a face. “Hasn’t the poor guy been through enough already?”

“What are you talking about? Mabel Juice is the best cure-all known to man. Besides, he hasn’t been through all _that_ much; he hasn’t even given his share of the blood yet.”

Norman had to suppress a groan.

It won’t be the last time you bleed today.

Norman shook his head to try and clear it, but that made him feel as though it were swimming twice as deep. Was he going to throw up? Was he going to pass out?

It won’t be the last time he bleeds today, either.

“D-Dipper in a . . . in a . . . sorcerer’s robe?” he muttered desperately.

“You say something?” the behatted, bleeding boy asked.

“No, j-just . . . Um . . . Hey, didn’t you s-say last night that . . . what’s-his-name—the l-last kid?”

“Gideon Gleeful?”

“Yeah. Him. D-didn’t you say he tried some, uh, b-blood magic, too?”

“I think so, yeah. Because of the bowl in the sink. Although the knife supports that hypothesis.”

“Well . . . Why would it work for _us_ if it d-didn’t work for _him_?” Norman asked nervously.

Mabel paused in the midst of pouring a glass of her home brew. “That’s . . . a real good point.”

Though still focused on his blood trickling into the bowl, Dipper replied, “Firstly, I’m not _certain_ Gideon tried to perform a spell; it just makes sense, though, that he would if he had a journal and knew something spiritual like the Slender Man was coming for him. And, like I said, it explains the blood on that bowl in the sink and on that knife. Secondly, even if he did, there’s lots of things he might have attempted other than a blood seal, like we’re going to make.”

{Blood _seal_?} Elaine repeated emphatically, which the Medium than conveyed to his friend.

“Yeah. A seal. To trap the Slender Man.”

“Ah! I get it!” Mabel chimed in. “You lure it in, trap it with the seal, and then banish it for good!”

Norman actually looked up from between his legs. “Can you do that?”

Patting his vest with his free hand, Dipper grinned. “Got an exorcism right in here that ought to do the trick. On the same page as the instructions for the seal, matter of fact.”

{But if that’s been his plan all along, why did all three of you have to lug those fans and spotlights around the building together?} Elaine questioned her grandson.

Thinking back on the past two hours—during which they (always working all together, so that none of them was ever alone) had dragged the four spotlights and four industrial fans about which Dipper had spoken the evening before out of the storage shed, had positioned them around the Shack in a strategic square formation (so that each pair of light and fan not only covered a side of the building, but the next pair as well), had rounded up every extension chord in the house to get all eight defenses plugged in, had primed the emergency generator with gas and sheltered it right beside the back door (“Thank goodness for Gruncle Stan’s apocalypse paranoia!”) in case the electricity should somehow inconveniently be disabled, and had locked and barred every door and window (some of which were even now boarded up)—the Medium couldn’t help but agree with his grandmother. “Yeah, why _did_ we have to lug the fans and lights around if you’re just going to trap and banish it? Or … him? W-whatever.”

“We don’t want the Slender Man getting in before we’re ready, do we? Or coming from a side we’re not prepared to defend,” Dipper answered succinctly. “No, we want to lure it or him in right over the blood seal, so the only way to get to us is to walk right over the trap. And checkmate; another day saved thanks to—”

“The PowerPuff Girls!” Mabel broke in.

“I was going to say ‘the Mystery Kids’.”

Handing Norman his glass of Mabel Juice, she groaned aloud (a sound Norman himself repeated after smelling the multi-colored concoction). “That name is still _the worst_. Besides, we haven’t saved anything yet, so it can’t exactly be ‘_another_ day saved’ now, can it?”

“Us being the PowerPuff Girls makes even less sense,” her brother asserted.

“Nuh uh. It makes perfect sense.”

Dipper eyed her skeptically, then pointed at her with his free hand. “Bubbles.” He pointed at himself. “Boy Blossom.” He pointed at Norman. “Boy Buttercup? Nope. Doesn’t fit him.”

The taller boy shrugged. “Yeah, I th-think I’m the _least_ like Buttercup here.”

“Speaking of cups, I think I’ve just about given one,” Dipper declared. “Sis-Sis, wad me.”

{. . . What did he just ask?} Elaine asked in confusion.

A second later, however, it was made clear when Mabel handed her brother a wad of gauze to press into his cut arm while she wrapped it tight. Then, after washing off the blade in soap and scalding hot water, she rolled up her sleeves and used it to make a precise incision of her own right arm right over the bowl. Like it was nothing unusual.

Norman gulped and bent back over. “D-do I . . . really gotta do that, too?”

“For maximum potency, yep,” his friend replied with an encouraging nudge.

“Three is better than one,” Mabel lilted. “It’s like a magic rule, or something. Or a math rule. A mathemagic rule.”

“Yep. If we mix our blood together, the seal should be _three times_ _stronger_,” Dipper asserted confidently. “So even if widdle ol’ Mister Gleeful _did_ make a blood seal—which, by the way, I’m sure Detoby would’ve noticed, ‘cause it would’ve been _really_ hard to miss (what with it being a bunch of arcane symbols within _big_ circles, all drawn in _human blood_, and presumably getting _major_ scrutiny from forensics for the aforementioned human blood and arcane symbols)—there’s no way it would’ve been as powerful as ours. Ours could probably trap Azrael himself.”

Detoby is gone because of you. Gone forever.

“Ooo! And then we’d make him be our BFF, and go on lots of grim adventures!” Mabel gushed out loud even as she gushed into the bowl.

Elaine shook her head. {I certainly hope they don’t intend to try and trap the Angel of Death.}

“Y-yeah . . .” Norman intoned distantly.

The behatted boy glanced down at him, worried. “You alright? Like I said, the first time giving blood like this is always the roughest.”

“It’s . . . It’s n-not that.”

“Then what?”

“Just th-thinking . . . about Detoby . . . I hope . . . I h-hope he and the others are alright.”

Silence followed that pronouncement, one laden with guilt from all persons present.

{I’m sure he is,} Elaine eventually said. {You know how irrepressible he is.}

“We’ll get them back, too,” Dipper affirmed.

“With all the kids,” Mabel concurred. Then she nodded to the first aid kit she had laid out on the counter. “Hey, Dipping Sauce, could you grab me some gauze and bandage? I think I’ve just about given a cup, too.”

“Sure thing,” her brother acquiesced, helping her bandage herself.

“Ho boy . . .” Norman breathed as he watched his friends then scrub the knife again.

{They’d better sanitize that thing good and proper,} his grandmother clucked. {Last thing we need is for you to contract some sort of blood-borne sickness.}

And then, Dipper stood in front of Norman, holding out the knife. He was smiling encouragingly, but still holding out a knife.

This is a waste. It will not help you. Nothing can.

“Ho boy . . .” Norman breathed again. “C-can I just hold my h-hand out, and you do it for me?”

“Sorry, but blood magic doesn’t work that way,” Dipper replied empathetically. “It has to be given voluntarily. Which means you gotta do it yourself.”

“Ho boy . . .”

Mabel was right there for additional support. “But we _can_ show you where to make the cut! I mean, the _incision_. With precision! And I promise you, it’s not as bad as you envision.”

Dipper rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Doctor Shakespeare.”

Ignoring her brother, she took Norman’s arm and rolled up his long shirt sleeve past his elbow. She traced a short line parallel to the crook of his elbow with her fingernail, saying, “Right here. Not too deep. Just press it in a little, and make a small pull.”

The taller boy gulped. “D-do I gotta . . . st-stand up?”

“Nope, not at all!” Mabel larked. And, in one smooth motion, she scooped up the bowl and held it out under his exposed arm. “Ready when you are!”

Elaine covered her eyes with her see-through hands. {I can’t look!}

“Ho boy . . .” Then, abruptly, Norman took the knife from his friend and put it right onto the fingernail tracing. “One. Two . . . Th-three . . . Go.” He jerked it across his skin, and the blade’s edge slit it right open; with a flash a flash of pain, blood flowed into the bowl.

Both twins breathed in relief. Dipper slapped him on the shoulder approvingly. “Nice one, man.”

“Heh . . . Y-yeah . . .” The taller boy smiled shakily and looked up at his friend. “That wasn’t . . . so b-bad . . . Heh heh—” Suddenly, his eyes rolled backwards and he slumped limply off of the chair.

{Normy!}

Mabel lunged aside. “Wah! Man down! Save the blood!”

And Dipper managed to lunge forward fast enough to catch his friend before he hit the ground. “Norm?! Norman?! You okay, man?!”

{Of course he’s not okay! He’s unconscious! He passed out!}

“Jeez, we need to lay him down,” Mabel said.

“On it. Help me prop up his legs so he doesn’t go into shock. I’m gonna check his pulse.”

{Why aren’t you calling him an ambulance right now?!} Elaine demanded, but in vain for all the twins heard from her.

“That first aid book you bought a couple months back sure has turned out to be a really sound investment, Bro-Bro.”

“You can say that again . . .”

“Dipstick, careful! You’re letting him bleed on you!”

“Meh. Not the first time blood’s gotten on this shirt. Why do you think I wear red all the time?”

{You two are far too blasé about my grandson bleeding unconsciously on your floor!}

“Truly, yours is a functional conception of fashion.”

“Well, I’m a busy guy; I don’t have time to waste replacing my clothes every time they get a little mud or blood on them!” Dipper protested with two fingers pressed to Norman’s neck and his eyes on the seconds counter of his watch.

“Or washing them,” his sister muttered. “Speaking of blood . . . You said it has to be voluntary. Think it still counts if we collect it while he’s blacked out?”

“Uh . . . I’m going . . . to say it _does_, because he made the incision voluntarily himself.”

“Then there’s no sense letting perfectly good bleeding go to waste,” Mabel reasoned. And she lifted the cut arm off the floor and draped it back over the bowl. “Shame we lost that bit right there,” she added with a nod to the small puddle where his arm had been before.

“You know what they say. ‘No sense crying over a little spilt blood’,” Dipper quipped.

{. . . I am beginning to worry you two might not be the most positive influences on my grandson,} Elaine sighed.

Mabel then asked, “How is he?”

“Pulse is normal rate, and it feels strong enough,” the behatted boy declared. “Maybe seeing his own blood just does this to him? Some people are like that.”

Mabel decided, “I’ll go get him a sweater, and some food to go with his Mabel Juice; when he comes round, he’s going to be chilly and hungry. Do you know where he put his?”

“He lost it last night,” Dipper remembered. “At the cemetery, while trying to slip through the bars. I hope it’s still there for us to find, once this is all over . . .”

“Well, in the meantime, I’ll get him a red one, sine that seems to be his color. Nurse Waddles!” she then called to her pet with a double clap. “Snuggle up to him to keep him warm until I get back!”

The pig grunted something that was either “blood magic” or “snuggle up”.

Dipper nodded. “Right. Good idea.” He then remained by Norman’s side (with Waddles), only leaving for a moment to fetch some gauze and a bandage to wrap the incision once enough of his blood had dripped into the bowl. While applying it, he asked, “Hey, Norm, can you hear me? Are you coming out of it yet?”

Norman’s eyelids fluttered. “Mmmwha . . . ?”

The behatted boy’s relief was palpable. “Oh, thank goodness!”

“Why’m I on . . . the floor?”

“Well . . . Mabel hit you with a sap from behind—”

“NO, I DIDN’T!” she called from the other room.

{She really didn’t,} Elaine confirmed.

“Okay, no, she didn’t,” Dipper admitted. “You just sorta . . . blacked out. Sorry.”

Norman looked around drunkenly. “I passed out? Tha’s ‘mbarrassing . . .”

And it renders you even more useless to the team.

Dipper shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry . . . First time is the roughest, right?”

{How many times have they even done this?!} Elaine demanded of the universe as a whole.

“How many times . . . you guys do this, anyway?” the Medium slurred.

“Um . . . How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three fingers . . . Four f’ya count the thumb.”

Dipper cracked a smile. “You’re back to being a great white snark, I see. That’s a good sign.”

{He didn’t answer the question. He’s changing the subject.}

“Yeah, y’didn’t. Answer the question, I mean,” the Medium observed.

“Yes, I did.”

“Huh? Oh. Four times?”

From the other room, Mabel called out, “ARE YOU COUNTING THAT TIME WITH THE IMP?”

“YES. EVEN THOUGH IT DIDN’T WORK BECAUSE IT WASN’T A SPIRIT. THAT MAKES FOUR TIMES.”

“OKAY. JUST CHECKING.” Then reappearing in the kitchen doorway, she continued, “I COULDN’T FIND ANYTHING THAT WAS _PLAIN_ RED, SO I DECIDED TO—”

“W-why are you still yelling?”

“HUH? Oh, right. Sorry. Anyway, I couldn’t find anything that was _plain_ red to replace the one we lost last night, so here’s the closet thing.” She held up a red sweater on which was knitted a hand raised in the “Scout’s Honor” position. At least, across the front. Across the back, there was a hand with crossed fingers. “Coco ChaMabel’s original (and trademarked) creation: Scout’s (Dis)Honor. For you.”

“Th-thanks!” Norman said as he tried to sit up.

But Dipper placed a hand on his sternum to hold him down. “Not yet. Not so fast.”

“Uh . . .” Norman looked at the hand on his chest. At the hand _touching_ his chest. At the hand which, as a result of the palm-pressing into his chest, had fingers _splayed across one of his pectorals_ . . . and _one fingertip right on his nipple_. He felt himself begin to blush—which did cause more blood to flow to his brain.

“We want to get some food in you first, so you don’t get dizzy and pass right back out again.”

“Nnnoooooo . . .” Norman said slowly, his brain calculating the most strategic move of his life. “R-really, I’m fine . . . I can t-totally stand _all the way_ up now.” And then he started pushing upwards.

Which meant that Dipper pushed a little harder downwards, keeping his hand right where it was on the taller boy’s chest. “Nothing. Doing. Man. You stay _right_ _there_ until you’ve revived a little.”

Without hesitating, Mabel pushed a chair against a counter and used it to reach to the back of the highest cupboard. “We can give him some of these cookies that Gruncle Stan thinks he hid from us. Those should help.”

Her brother nodded, still holding Norman down. “Good.”

“Plus the Mabel Juice.”

“. . . Less good, but . . .”

“Just help him drink it, Dipstick.”

“Fine. Fine.”

{There are two plastic dinosaurs in it,} Elaine pointed out. {Are there supposed to be?}

“Probably. It is called _Mabel_ Juice.” Then, the Medium wrinkled his nose as the behatted boy brought the so-called “beverage” to his mouth. “D-does it at least taste better than it smells?”

“Nope. Bottoms up.”

Norman took a swallow, then made a face. “Yegh . . .”

“Yep,” Dipper said emphatically. “Take another swig; it’ll get you on your feet faster.”

Norman did. And though he couldn’t smile (because of the bile-like flavor), he still felt like grinning from ear to ear; Dipper was kneeling over him and holding his spikey head to help him drink. That was enough to make him think that maybe he should pass out more often.

Handing cookies around to everyone, Mabel asked, “Where you planning on painting the seal? Keep in mind, I don’t think Stan will be too cray-cray about us painting on his walls. Especially in blood.”

Dipper shook his head. “Not putting it on the walls.”

“What? You mean the floor, then?”

“Nope. And also not the ceiling,” he elaborated. “All of those places are too visible. First rule of trap-making is: Never make a trap they can see.”

“Can the Slender Man, like, even see, though?” Mabel asked as she crunched into her cookie. “Or hear, for that matter? I mean, he doesn’t even have eyes or ears.”

{Didn’t seem to stop it from chasing the lot of you yesterday,} Elain replied sensibly.

“Maybe it has, like … a ‘Sixth Sense’? Eh?” Dipper joked while making little guns with his fingers.

Norman pursed his lips. “B-both Mabel and Grandma make a really—”

“Y’see what I did there? Because of the movie?”

“Yes, we saw what you did there,” Norman replied dismissively. “Anyway, it is r-really weird that the Slender Man doesn’t have eyes or ears. Every ghost I’ve ever seen does—just like n-normal people—either that, or they were . . . y’know, blind. But the Slender Man st-still chased after us, so . . . It must be able to s-see us. Somehow.”

“Or have a ‘Sixth Sense’!” Dipper persisted.

“Wow, look at that: the joke somehow became f-funny the _second_ time.”

Both Mabel and Elaine snorted. Dipper, for his part, announced happily, “Sounds like you’re back to normal: sarcastic and disagreeable!” He gave his friend a smack of approbation on the chest, stood up, and then added, “But don’t get up too fast, okay? Sit for a bit before you stand.”

The combination of processed sugars in the cookies and whatever the processed heck is in Mabel Juice had Norman on his feet within five minutes. He was steady while walking within six, and vibrating everywhere within ten. Mabel Juice will do that.

It was then that Dipper took the bowl in hand and led the way out of the kitchen. “To answer your previous question, though, I plan to put the blood seal in . . . here!” And he gestured around at the living room. “Think about it: every other room has windows through which the Slender Man could strike, but not here.”

{Yeah, but there are _two_ doorways,} Elaine pointed out, and which her grandson conveyed.

“True, but those doorways are the only points of entry, and we’ll have a clear view of anything trying to come through them,” Dipper countered. “Nothing can take us by surprise. Plus, we’ll have, uh, an avenue of escape. Just, y’know, in case.”

“Yyyou don’t think this wwwill wwwork?” Norman buzzed.

“I think it’ll work!” the behatted boy affirmed quickly. “But you always want a Plan B.”

“Wwwhich is to _rrrun_?”

“Which is to make a _tactical retreat_. Before we regroup and counter.”

“Okay yeah,” Mabel broke in. “But, for serious, where are you putting the blood seal? You said you can’t on the walls or the ceiling, and most of this room is carpeted. Gruncle Stan will kill you if you put blood on it—especially after that intensive vacuuming he gave it. It filled the vacuum bag with dirt, like, _thirty_-_seven_ times!”

{Ew. Think of how much engrained . . . _everything_ was in its fibers! What, was that the first time he vacuumed in a decade?}

“And, more importantly, if I paint it on the carpet, the fibers would move and break the circle,” Dipper explained. “Rendering the blood seal useless, and that’d just be poor planning, logistically. No, I intend to put it . . . ON THE UNDERSIDE OF THIS!” And with that, he grabbed a small rug in the center of the room and flipped it over.

“Bbbut it’s not that bbbig,” Norman pointed out.

“And it’s right in the middle of the room. The Slender Man would have to walk right over it for it to work,” Mabel added.

The behatted boy sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “_Obviously_ it’s not going to stay _right_ _here_ in the middle of the room. C’mon, guys. Think strategically.”

“So . . . you’re going to put it in front of a doorway?” Mabel surmised.

“I’m going to put it in front of a doorway, yes.”

“Wwwhat about the other dddoorway?” Norman buzzed. “Yyyou just llleaving it open?”

“Yeah, but if it comes through there, we’ll escape out the doorway with the seal. When the Slender Man follows after us . . . checkmate.”

“Wwwhy leave it to ch-ch-chance, though? Wwwhy not make a sssecond seal for the sssecond doorway? Wwwe’ve got enough bbblood, don’t wwwe?”

Mabel backed him. “That’s a good idea.”

Dipper considered that, then shrugged. “Okay, sure. But what’re we gonna put the second seal on, huh?”

“Duh. On a second rug,” Mabel answered, like it was obvious. “And, oh, what’s this? There appears to be another one! Right over here! In front of the front door! And now I’ve got it in my hand! Guess I better give it to you, like, boop!”

“Yeah, well . . . Technically, this is a _mat_, not a _rug_,” her brother muttered.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of that deafening ‘DDDUUUUUUHHH!’.”

Sighing, Dipper picked up both the rug and the mat, then turned and walked away. “I’m gonna be at this table over here, painting occult symbols in human blood on these, when you’re ready to act like a rational human being again, Mabel.”

{Now there’s a phrase you don’t hear every day . . .} the ghostly grandmother muttered. {Except I’m starting to suspect that they probably do.}

Turning to the taller boy, Mabel asked, “He can be such a killjoy. Why do we put up with him?”

“Bbbecause he’s willing to sssacrifice himself for our sssafety—literally sh-sh-shed his bbblood to protect us?” Norman offered.

“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s worth him being a big ol’ grumpy-grump sometimes.”

“Hey, how lllong until I stop . . .yyy’know, vvvibrating?”

“About another fifteen minutes, give or take,” Mabel guesstimated. “Then you’ll have a sustained slow-burn of energy for about . . . five hours, what with how much you drank divided by what I’m guessing your weight is.”

Somewhat worried, Norman inquired, “Then wwwhat? I c-c-crash?”

“Only if we don’t have some dinner in your belly. But I’m guessing we’ll have a little downtime for that after Dipping Sauce finishes with this.”

“Wwwhat do we do in the mmmeantime?”

Bent over his work—over the arcane design he was replicating from the Journal on the bottom of the rug—Dipper grumbled, “Preferably something that keeps you both quiet while I concentrate. Surprisingly, it isn’t easy painting in blood. Especially when you have to keep stirring it to keep it from coagulating while you brush, and the irony smell of it is getting all . . . irony-er . . .”

“Hhhow _iron_-_ick_,” Norman buzzed triumphantly.

The behatted boy actually looked up from his work at that. “. . . That is a terrible pun, and I hate that you came up with it before me. We are no longer friends. Get out of my sight.”

Looping her arm through the taller boy’s, Mabel declared in mock-condescension, “I reckon that means I get all his friendship to myself now. Come along, Ghost Pants; we’ll leave the Diva Dipper—or the _Divver_—to his blood magic while we prepare food _and_ come up with a Plan B of _our own_.”

“Uh . . . Sh-sh-shouldn’t we _nnnot_ separate?” he protested, though in vain as he was inexorably (even if genteelly) dragged from the room. Nothing can resist the power of Mabel, after all.

“You’ll be in the kitchen, just down the hall. I’ll be fine,” the behatted boy insisted.

“Bbbut—”

“I said, ‘come along’,” Mabel repeated, pulling him over the threshold.

Plaintively, he cast an eye at the transparent woman floating near the table. “Gggrandma?”

{I’ll keep an eye on him, Normy dear. Off you go now; it isn’t polite to keep a lady waiting. Or physically possible, it seems, in this particular instance.}

****

The old man had been removed, as had the man-child and the ax girl. The family was pacified. All these primary supports to the obstacle were gone, but an accidental one might arise by a chance encounter if people were allowed to wander about town during their vain search for those who had been taken away.

It was, therefore, time to make the fifth ripple.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

“Did you search down Rocky Mountain Road?”

Wearily, the response came, “Yes, O Keeper.”

“You . . . really need not call me that any longer,” Samuel Turley reminded the goth before him.

The only response that received was a shrug. After all, once a Keeper of the Precepts . . .

“And, um . . . What does this map say? ‘Appalachian Avenue’? Did you search down that, too?”

“Yes, we did. And we ran into Joseph and Josephine on it.”

“Then what about—”

“_Yes_, O Keeper,” the goth cut in impatiently. “Whatever you’re about to say, we looked there. _And_ probably one of the other pairs of goths, too. _And_ probably those adults in, like, clothing from Costmo or Trawlmart or whatever store. We’ve looked freakin’ _everywhere_, and . . . and I’m just _done_. We’ve spent all day—all _freakin’_ day—doing this, and I’m just done.”

There was a murmur of assent from the circle of goths surrounding them. A weary one, for most had spent over eight hours that day tramping up and down all the streets in Gravity Falls. But to no avail; Kennedy Jenkins (aka Ebony Ravenspath, aka the Former Grand Goth) remained unfound—him/her, and all the others who had vanished that week. Which made a failure of that long and weary day.

“But . . . But we must have missed _someplace_!” the no-longer-but-still Keeper of the Precepts affirmed desperately. “We must have, or we would have found her/him!”

Even steadfast Paul Oftarzis was flagging fast. “Samuel . . . They _have_ searched everywhere. You and I were the ones to organize and assign them. Remember?”

You will never find the ones you seek. They are all dead already. You should just give up hope.

“We’re wasting our time . . .” someone grumbled. “She/He is long gone . . .”

“Yeah. No way the kidnapper would just, like, keep all those kids locked up in a basement in the middle of suburbia.”

“I bet they killed all the kids. Probably ate them, too.”

Samuel Turley stamped his foot in impotent fury. “NO! I _refuse_ to believe that’s true! We just have to keep looking!”

“Where? Where _haven’t_ we searched already?”

“Us and those adults with, like, the police.”

“One of ‘em fell over when they saw me. Must be the fog—makes people jumpy.”

“Yeah, well, you got off lucky. One of the cops, she—”

“WE _CANNOT_ GIVE UP!” Samuel Turley burst out angrily. “WE CANNOT JUST _ABANDON_ ONE OF OUR OWN! WE . . . We . . . we have to . . .”

All the goths looked at the boy in the long cloak pityingly. It was like watching a balloon (a black one, with skulls on it) deflate. Slowly, his shoulders hunched, his knees buckled, and he just . . . sort of sagged onto a bus bench and buried his face in his hands. It was painful to watch.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then one person cleared their throat. Another murmured, “_Awwwkwwward_ . . .” And another (then another and another) began to shuffle away from the group.

A few looks and meaningful nods back to the parking lot were exchanged with Paul Oftarzis, and he signaled his understanding. Then, stepping up to Samuel Turley and laying a hand on his shoulder, Paul Oftarzis said, “We have done all we could. It just . . . There was just never anything we could do . . . He/She is almost certainly . . . um . . . F-for that, I am truly sorry. For your loss. But now, I need to lead my consortium back home.”

“And, uh . . . I’m just . . . gonna go home now, too,” someone from Gravity Falls added.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“And me.”

“Sorry K.P., but . . . yeah.”

On his park bench of regrets, Samuel Turley looked up to see everyone walking away. To their cars or to their homes. In less than a minute, they had all disappeared into the fog.

Then, he was alone . . .

He buried his face his in his hands again and wept.

****

The standard set by the old family saying “A Northwest must look their best” had certainly been lowered in recent days; with hair that was almost unkempt (and barely kempt as it was), faces that were not receiving their daily moisturizer, and the same set of clothes they’d put on after breakfast that day (without taking the time to change them after lunch—like _savages_), both Mister and Missus Northwest looked haggard. Relatively speaking. Granted, their haggardness could not hold a candle to that of Sheriff Blubbs’ or Deputy Durland’s, but it was still pretty haggard for people with a live-in combination beautician and masseur (who, naturally, was named Sergiorgio Pavoloreal). If asked to account for this only relative haggardness, they no doubt would have said something testy along the lines of, “We might have lowered our standards _this week_, but we still _had_ some to begin with.”

One would have to forgive them their testiness, though. After all, it had been five days since their business operations had completely halted while still costing them full employee salaries across the board (plus overtime); they were positively hemorrhaging money.

Oh, yes, and it had been five days since their daughter had disappeared. That, too. Of course.

And, to top it all off, the town had suddenly been overrun with goth teenagers. The coordinated police-Northwest search parties couldn’t search down an alley without tripping over two pairs of them. Which had been highly unsettling for everyone involved, given how this annoyingly persistent fog seemed to lend itself to accidental jump scares (his adult employees being frightened by the goth teens, and the goth teens apparently being frightened by the looming specter of social conformity represented by working adults in jeans and jackets purchased from mainstream retailors . . . and also occasionally having a firearm drawn on them by a startled, sleep-deprived police officer). And unsettled employees were NOT efficient employees.

“Benjamin,” Mister Northwest snapped. “Remind me: How close is the weather machine project to completion?”

“Last I checked with your scientists, sir, they assured me that they’re still at least five years away from effective control of the weather.”

“Blast it! What’s the point of being rich if we cannot bend the forces of nature to our will? Well, no matter. Get me the walkie-talkie; I wish to speak with the Sheriff.”

“Very good, sir.”

Benjamin’s hands shook ever so slightly as he proffered the device on a silver tray. The past days had been especially hard on him. He had barely slept, and been so full of nervous energy that he had sharpened the cutlery so often that most of the knives were half their original width … but twice their original sharpness; he had accidentally sliced through the cutting board while preparing cucumber sandwiches for Friday’s search party meeting.

The second Mister Northwest was on the line, he demanded, “Blubbs, why is my town overrun with goths today?”

The crackling response that came back was, “They seem to be conducting an independent search for Kennedy Jenkins, sir.”

“Well, they’re impeding our search for Pacifica. And the other children, I suppose. Can’t your people do something about them?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not?! What do you think I’m paying you for?!”

“Technically, you don’t. We’re allocated funds by the City Council out of local and state taxes—”

“And whose taxes make up 51% of all revenue received by this town, do you think?!” Mister Northwest burst out dragonishly. “That means I pay a controlling majority of your ‘allocated funds’! And might just decide to move my operations to Woodbury!”

“. . . You make a compelling legal argument, Mister Mayor. What would you like me to do?”

“Have them detained! Get them out of the way!”

“On what grounds? They’re not breaking any laws, Mister Mayor.”

“Surely you can trump up some charges.”

“Against dozens of teens?”

“If that’s what it takes! My people keep tripping over them all over town and—”

The children are not in town. They must be being held somewhere deep out in the woods.

Removing his finger from the walkie-talkie’s call button, Mister Northwest disconnected. For a lone moment, he stood there in deep in contemplation.

Then, behind him, Benjamin cleared his throat drily. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if I might take the liberty of suggesting an idea I just had?”

“Hmm?”

“It seems to me, sir, that Miss Pacifica must _not_ be held captive in town or about the outskirts. Else we surely would have found her by now—after five days of intensive searching, sir.”

His employer’s jaw dropped. “Benjamin, you marvel, I was _just_ thinking that!”

“So it would stand to reason, would it not, that she (and the other poor barins) must be captive somewhere further out of town?”

“Yes! Yes! Deeper in the woods!” Mister Northwest deduced. “But still not _too_ far, because whatever monster is responsible for this has continued to abduct a child a day!”

“And they couldn’t risk leaving the children unsupervised for long, sir—”

“Because they might get loose and escape, or someone might pass by and notice something!”

“Exactly, sir! Unless . . .” And Benjamin trailed off at that, thinking it was best not pursue the train of thought that whomever was responsible might have already guaranteed in a permanent way that the children would not cause any trouble. He simply could not bear such a thought at that time.

Fortunately for him and his awkward pause, Missus Northwest came bursting in at the moment. “I just had an idea!” she shouted excitedly. “What if we’re wasting our time searching _in_ town? What if we need to search—”

“Deep in the woods?” Mister Northwest finished her sentence. “Yes, I had just thought of—”

Suddenly, the walkie-talkie crackled into life, and Blubbs excited voice was shouting, “My darling Durland here just had the most genius idea! They must not be in town—the kids must not be in town—because then we’d already’ve found them! So they must be hidden somewhere in the woods!”

“My thoughts precisely!” Mister Northwest exclaimed into it. “Blubbs, get on the search party frequency at once! We need to inform all parties out there to move outward into the woods! At once! Not just around the outskirts of town, but further afield! Special priority for searching any structures or cabins or what have you! They are authorized to kick down the doors!”

“. . . Um, I think we’d need a search warrant to do—”

“I’m not paying you to think, Blubbs. Besides, I’ll handle any legal entanglements.”

“But ifen we find ‘em durin’ a unlawful search ‘n’ seizure, the perp walks!” Durland protested into the walkie-talkie. “I saw it on a episode of ‘CSI: Oklahoma City’, so it _must_ be true!”

“I said _I will handle_ _any legal entanglements_!” Mister Northwest barked. “Now get out there and get them out there!” Then, with that, he disconnected the call and slammed it back onto Benjamin’s silver tray.

Not a sound filled the room—not a sound, save for his heavy, shallow breathing.

Eventually, Missus Northwest ventured, “The deputy makes a good point. Do we want to risk letting the monster that dared kidnap _our_ daughter escape justice?”

“That _animal_ will not escape justice,” her husband answered in a low, quiet voice. Like the growl of a feral beast from within a gilded cage (which hadn’t yet received its weekly polishing). “I’m sure someone will . . . _take the liberty_ . . . of making sure they don’t.”

Missus Northwest gulped. She stole a glance at the family butler, who had just set the silver tray with the walkie-talkie within his employer’s easy reach.

Benjamin’s preamble was as imperturbable as had been all of his actions seven short days ago. Before . . . all this unpleasantness with Miss Pacifica’s disappearance. “If you will excuse me, sir, ma’am. I must go and see to my preparations for _this evening_ . . . ’s meal.”

Mister Northwest nodded curtly once.

Seemingly in the blink of an eye, Benjamin had vanished from the room.

****

When Dipper reentered the kitchen, he had blood on his hands and a broad smile on his face. “Heh. If Gideon were _half_ as clever as we are, there’s no way he would’ve been taken.”

“Finished your blood seals? Took you a while,” his sister commented.

“Yeah, well, they’re kinda intricate. You gotta get them just right, so you have to be careful when you paint them. They’re drying now, but should be ready to use in a few minutes.”

“Huh . . . Makes you wonder who first thought them up, and how,” Norman voiced aloud. “Like, was there this one guy who kept being plagued by demons and ghosts so regularly, he could sit down and experiment with different . . . What are they, even?”

Washing his hands at the sink, the behatted boy shrugged. “Formulas? Incantations? Designs? Whatever they’re called, it was probably Solomon who figured hem out.”

{Solomon? As in “King Solomon”?} Elaine asked, even as she claimed a spot in the corner and resumed her knitting. {From the Bible?}

Once the Medium had relayed that inquiry, Mabel stipulated, “Or the Torah. GooOO_OO_, _Jews_!” she added like a cheerleader. “But yep. That Solomon.”

Norman looked from one twin to the other in mild surprise. “You guys are Jewish?”

Dipper shrugged. “Never really been a big deal for us. Anyway, what’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

“We have fro-mage paninis de Norman-dee, and a sizzling gazpacho a la Chef Mabel!”

“Or, in other w-words,” Norman translated shyly, “just grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

“Yum. _Just_ what a man gets in the mood for after working with a bowlful of blood for an hour.”

The taller boy’s eyes widened. “I am so st-_stupid_! Of course you wouldn’t want tomato soup after all that blood! S-sorry, I’ll get a different can—”

“Norm, it’s fine,” Dipper hurriedly assured him. “I was just joking. This is great. Let’s all sit down and . . . Why is Waddles in my seat?”

“If he’s sitting there, it’s not _your_ seat,” Mabel countered.

The pig grunted something that was either “snuggle up” or “my seat, fool”.

“Whatever,” Dipper muttered, pulling up a different chair. “Tell me what you guys came up with during your back-up planning.”

Ladling soup and handing sandwiches around to everybody (including the pig), Mabel answered, “Mostly that we get weapons ready and carry them around with us. That way, we can fight our way back to Norm-Norm’s house. Y’know, if need be.”

“And . . . what weapons exactly do you think would work against the Slender Man?” her brother inquired skeptically before taking a bite of crunchy and crusty (yet also creamy) sandwich. “I mean, you saw how all the ghosts hitting it didn’t stop it.”

His eyes downcast, Norman answered, “Y-yeah . . .”

They didn’t stop what’s coming; now they’re gone. You can’t stop what’s coming; you’ll be—

Under his breath Norman, muttered, “Crumbs on Dipper’s fa—_wiping_ crumbs off Dipper’s face.”

“What did you say?”

“I s-said they didn’t stop the Slender Man, maybe, b-but they did s-slow it down. Enough for all us to escape, at least. S-so, if we got something that’ll slow it down, we should be able to make it.”

“Especially if we take the golf cart,” Mabel interjected.

“Oh, yeah! That’s a good idea, Sis-Sis. It’s still plugged in, right?”

She shrugged as she took a spoonful. “I haven’t checked, but Soos _always_ plugs it in.”

“Good ol’ dependable Soos,” Dipper agreed. “At least, when he’s not being kidnapped . . . Still, we should double-check on that after dinner. We want that _fully_ powered, in case we have to use it.”

{Wouldn’t that entail going outside?} Elaine pointed out. {Where the Slender Man might be?}

Her grandson gulped. Then masked his fear by taking another spoonful of soup.

Insistently, Dipper then said, “But that brings me back to these weapons. What do we think would be effective against it? Or him? Whatever.”

“L-light. Right? Light s-seems to work. So I was th-thinking . . . a flashlight,” Norman suggested. “A really strong one.”

Mabel grinned. “When he told me that idea, I said it sounds . . . BRIGHT! Yuck yuck yuck!”

Her brother nodded thoughtfully. “I think we got just the thing in Stan’s office: One of those big lights you can also use as a club—THWAM! I think it’s called a ‘tag light’ . . . I guess because you can really tag someone with them. THWAM! Anyway, we should have fresh batteries for it in the gift shop.”

Patting a bulge on her hip, Mabel stated, “I’m sticking with my grappling hook.”

“Good idea.” Dipper slurped down the rest of his bowl, then refilled it before continuing, “Not _only_ can we use it to clear obstacles, but the propulsion from that would be like a super punch—especially if you get him or it in the stomach or the face.”

“Plus, it’s an iron compound,” she added. “_And_ I coated it in _salt_!”

“Not _this_ again!” Norman groaned in exasperation.

Dipper looked from one to the other, then cocked an eyebrow at his sister. “Explicate, please.”

“Well, y’know how iron and salt repel spiritual things—”

“No, they _don’t_,” the Medium interjected dismissively.

“—according to a lot of reputable sources? Well, I was thinking—”

This time, Dipper broke in. “What reputable sources?”

“Well, um, like certain . . . wellresearchedhorrorcomedydramas,” she added in a mumbled rush. “As well as general Celtic mythol—”

“What ‘well-researched horror-comedy-dramas’?” Dipper broke in again.

“Ones . . . you’re not a fan of.”

“Such as?”

“Such as . . . ‘Preternatural’.”

Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from that arch-weasel _Pared Jadaleki_?”

“I’m taking it from the writers of a show in which he happens to play a character.”

His eyes narrowed even further; they were practically closed. “You’re taking monster-hunting advice from writers who think plot development means _finding a new species of shark to jump_?”

“Technically, you’re not _jumping_ a shark if you never come back down,” Mabel retorted. “And, anyway, you really need to get over this bizarre prejudice against Pared Jadaleki.”

“THERE’S NOTHING BIZARRE ABOUT IT, MABEL! HE BROKE NORI’S HEART!”

Both grandmother and grandson exchanged glances. Neither was clear what was going on, but the grandmother ventured, {Is he . . . talking about . . . the show “Gilman Gals”?}

“Correction. The _character he played_ broke Nori’s heart. Because Pared Jadaleki is an _actor_.”

“Whatever,” Dipper grumbled, angrily munching into another sandwich. “Nyam! Nyam! Nyam!”

“Is this about . . . ‘Gilman Gals’?” the Medium asked, with a glance of confirmation to the ghost.

Mabel nodded. “Yep. It’s a soap opera Dipstick here—”

“It is a _comedy-drama_ with _extremely witty_ dialogue,” her brother interrupted petulantly.

“—got hooked on back home—”

“I HAD _NO CHOICE_ BUT TO GET HOOKED! MOM WAS ALWAYS PLAYING IT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO DO HOMEWORK!”

Closing her mouth, Mabel gazed long and hard at her brother. Her brother, who suddenly blushed—though with personal embarrassment, or out of concern for the taboo topic he had broached by accident, it was impossible to say.

“S-sorry . . .” he eventually murmured.

“N-no . . . It’s alright,” she replied quietly. “It’s . . . It’s alright. I promise.” She cleared her throat. She wiped at her eyes. She looked away. She took a spoonful of soup. She took a deep breath, then said, “I didn’t realize that was a special thing for you and . . . you _and_ Mom.”

Her brother nodded. “Yeah. Um . . . Like ‘Preternatural’ was for you _and_ Dad, I guess.”

She nodded in turn at that.

The silence was only broken by Elaine (which meant that it was only broken for her grandson). {Well, it doesn’t matter how sentimentally attached we are to a series or to its actors. It they’re wrong, they’re wrong.}

“Y-yeah!” the Medium agreed. When both twins then looked his way, he stammered, “I mean, G-Grandma says if they’re wrong, then they’re . . . like, w-wrong. And the show—‘Preternatural’—_is_.”

“What do you mean?” both asked.

“I m-mean that iron and salt and . . . and w-whatever physical thing you want don’t actually affect ghosts.” And then, Norman even poured some salt into his palm and threw it at his grandmother. “See? No affect.”

{Normy, don’t throw food at people. Especially me.}

“Um . . .” Both twins exchanged a glance. They hadn’t actually seen anything, but decided to take his word for it. “Sure, okay.”

“D-do I need to prove it with the frying pan? That looks like it’s made of iron, too.”

{Normy, don’t hit people with iron skillets. Especially me.}

“Nah, we believe you,” Dipper assured him, turning back to his soup.

“But then . . . why does _a blood seal_ work on them?” Mabel asked incisively.

Norman shrugged. “P-probably has more to do with the _seal_ than the actual _blood_.”

“I think the blood strengthens it. Represents, like, a fricative personal sacrifice for power,” Dipper surmised. “Or maybe ‘vital sacrifice’ would be more accurate. In the old sense of the word. It’s some life force. Those kinds of sacrifices mean a lot in magic.”

“Well, either way, I’m taking my grappling hook. And it’s already coated in salt, so . . . I’ll just leave it like that. Less work than cleaning it up. Plus, it can’t hurt. And, y’know, you never know . . . maybe the salt _will_ matter with the Slender Man.”

{Heh. Pretty sure you and I already do know that it won’t. Eh, Normy?}

The Medium smiled into his soup at the comment.

Gesturing at her backpack in the corner, Mabel continued, “I’ve also got my backpack right there full of other additional supplies you should always have with you on a monster hunt.”

Dipper looked at her skeptically. “Like what? Because if we gotta run again, we don’t want a lot of extra weight on our backs . . . _Again_. Like last night.”

“Mostly just—”

“How much does your goth sweater even weigh?”

Mabel waved her hand carelessly. “Not that it matters, since I’m no longer wearing it, but . . . Several ten-pound packages worth of bezazzle beads.”

“Holy ship . . .”

“Anyway, the stuff I got in my bag doesn’t weigh more than ten pounds total. And it’s all useful; it includes (but is not limited to) a couple glitter-smoke bombs, that compact silver mirror, and your canteen of holy water.”

Dipper relented at that. “Fine. Okay. Sounds good. Just keep it handy.”

“I can’t do that, Bro-Bro,” Mabel stated solemnly. “Because then it wouldn’t be a backpack . . . It’d be a HANDbag! Ba-dum chee!”

{Ugh . . . Kill me again now . . .}

“But then who’d kill _me_?” the Medium quipped.

Dipper chose to just ignore that objectively hilarious pun. Instead, he counted off, “Grappling hook and backpack full of the supernatural equivalent of grenades, tag light, and . . . Well, how about I take a shovel and the leaf blower?”

Elaine’s expression and tone went flat. {A leaf blower?}

“That way, I’ll have the ultimate melee weapon—think about it: a shovel is equal parts spear, axe, and sword!—and a piece of transportable wind to match Norman’s transportable light,” Dipper elaborated. “Both the Slender Man’s known weaknesses in our hands—”

{Meaning . . . a leaf blower?}

“—plus some regular weapons with which we’ve already proven ourselves fairly dangerous.”

Mabel snorted. “Name one instance you’ve proven yourself dangerous with a shovel.”

“Against the Gnomes,” Dipper answered at once.

Making the “iffy wave” gesture with her hand, Mabel replied, “Not sure the shovel part qualified as dangerous.”

“Well, I was pretty handy with a sword against Sherlock Holmes. Ergo—”

“_Wax_ Sherlock Holmes,” she added emphatically. “And _he_ disarmed _you_.”

“Okay, but I dismembered the Trickster with a sword. _That_ was just a plastic, costume sword.”

“And then it seized you and held you captive. Dismembering it did nothing.”

“Fine, yes, but I bagged the Gremloblin.”

“Yeah, but with a morningstar, not a sword. Or a shovel, for that matter.”

“Look, I don’t have to prove my combat prowess,” Dipper snapped back. “I fought the _Multibear_ to submission. The fracking _Multibear_—_he_ named me _a warrior_. And _that_ was with a bone spear, too. So when I say I’m dangerous with a shovel, we can take it as factual.”

{But is he just as dangerous with a leaf blower?}

The behatted boy continued confidently, “And, let me tell you, the Multibear has a lot more muscle and fangs and claws (and jaws and limbs, for that matter) than the Slender Man does. If it comes to a fight, I doubt I’ll have a problem holding my own.”

“You mean you doubt ‘_we_’ll have a problem holding _our_ own’, right?” Mabel snarked.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you didn—”

Norman cleared his throat. “N-not to argue with your optimism, but . . . The Slender Man b-_beat_ the Multibear. Remember? Or he must’ve, since the whole c-cave vanished.”

“Oh, right . . .” Some of the wind visibly went out of Dipper’s sails. There a shadow of doubt in his eyes. But then he straightened his back again (whether for himself, or for his sister and friend, no one could say, though it was perhaps for all of them) to confidently assert, “That just means our fight’ll be a clash of champions—the winners of the last round-robin competing to see who the number one winner will be. Except we already know it’ll be _us_, so . . .”

{Thanks to the leaf blower, no doubt.}

“Y-you really think a leaf blower will stop it?” the Medium finally asked for his grandmother. “I mean, for s-serious? It’s just a leaf blower.”

Mabel handed Waddles another sandwich, then shrugged. “Worked pretty well against the combined might of the Gnomes.”

“True, true,” Dipper concurred. “Plus, worse comes to worst, we can just use it like a club.”

Putting her spoon back into her near-empty bowl, Mabel asked, “Isn’t it out in the shed? And the shovel, too? Shouldn’t we go get those while we still got a little daylight left?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dipper said as he pushed himself up from the table. “Good thinking. I’ll get it now.”

{Alone?}

“N-not _alone_, you _won’t_!” Norman stated at once, jumping to his feet.

“We’ll all go,” Mabel declared, joining the boys. “Except Waddles. He needs to finish his dinner.”

A moment later, they were crossing the susurrus stretch of long grass between the Shack proper and the shed. Perhaps it was only Norman’s imagination, but it seemed to him as though the fog was curling around them. Trying to latch onto them—seize them and hold them there, out in the open. He shivered. The gloaming was upon them, and soon the sun would be completely set. Only a few minutes more daylight, and then . . .

With a creak, the shed door opened. Dipper flicked the switch, and the bulb flickered back. On. Off-on-off-on-off. On. Off-on. With each flicker, Dipper seemed to vanish from reality. Swallowed by darkness. Here. Gone-here-gone-here-gone. Here. Gone-here. But that didn’t seem to perturb Dipper; he just kept moving through the shed, looking for the shovel and the leaf blower he was so sure could help save them.

Unable to stand the flickering anymore, Norman turned away from the shed; it hurt his eyes to look inside it . . . made that nagging headache that had been bothering him all day pulse harder, too . . . Instead, he looked back at the darkening sky. The clouds were moving fast across it . . . which was strange, as there was no wind . . . And were they blowing up higher, away from the earth? But if so, the same backdraft had caught the fog, for it was also rushing upward. Enveloping the earth. Enveloping them all. Swallowing them whole.

Except . . . that wasn’t how weather behaved, was it? Was it? The headache was getting worse, making it harder to think, but still . . .

“We . . . We n-need to get back to the Shack . . .”

But the Shack seemed so far away all of a sudden. And the shed. And Mabel, even though Norman could feel her reaching out to him across the foggy space . . . Her mouth was moving now, but no sound came out . . . What could she be trying to say? She seemed worried about something . . .

No, not worried . . . _Afraid_.

There was another creak. Or more like a screech. Felt like it was cutting into his head. The shed? No, too distant to have come from the shed. Too unearthly, too. Familiar—so familiar . . . too familiar . . . But so horrible he couldn’t possibly have heard anything like it ever before. Not in the waking world, at least . . . But while _not_ waking? While seeing, but not seeing? Like a door opening, it was, but no door that should ever be opened.

Which meant that it was—

**LONELINESS**

“Oh no . . .” he whispered.

For suddenly, he was there on Main Street. And the Cursed Door loomed open before him. Cold. So cold. So very cold. And not just before him, but before Mabel and Dipper, too.

“No . . . No no no!”

**TAKE AWAY**

And on the other side of the door—in side it—hanging high on the wall with heads hanging low, were all the missing kids from all the towns. And the four lost ghosts. And the Slender Man, too. Hanging from the wall, but with cadaverous hands outstretched. Reaching for the three of them.

“_Nononononono_!”

**FOREVER**

It reached through the door and seized the twins on either side of him, no matter how hard Norman tried to pull them back. His head hurt so much, too much to get full strength to pull them back. It yanked them through to join the others hanging high on the wall. Beside the Slender Man. From beneath the faceless expanse, another face seemed to push out. Shrieking? Cheering? Weeping?

“NO! GIVE THEM BACK!”

Norman tried to dive through. He had to save _him_—had to save _them_. _All_ of them. But the fog had wrapped around his arms. So cold . . . The fog was pulling him down, holding him down, pressing him into the cold, wet grass. He struggled, moistening his neck and his cheek and his chin.

And then he remembered that Main Street was paved; there was no grass before #13.

“This . . . This isn’t real. Not real . . . Not real . . . Just a vision . . . Need to . . . to snap out of it!”

And when he looked up, he saw Dipper and Mabel. Heard their voices, and his grandmother’s. All shouting his name, all begging him to snap out of it.

“I think . . . I think he’s coming out of it!” Mabel shouted in relief.

{How many fingers am I holding up, Normy?! Can you see how many?! Let him breathe, you two, for heaven’s sake!}

“Norm?! Norm, are you alright?! It looked like you were having a seizure!”

The Medium shook his head (or tried to, but it was hard to do so while being pressed down, and the ache in made it hard to move). “Just . . . a vision . . . But, listen, we—”

{Get off of him, you two! Norman, tell them to get off of you!}

“Are they always like that?!” Mabel demanded. “You had us worried sick!”

“You started, like, convulsing around,” Dipper explained in a still panicky rush. “But while standing. And screaming. It was—”

Speaking as forcefully as he could, Norman declared, “We need to get inside . . . Now!”

That will not save you.

“Wha—”

“It’s coming! The . . . The Slender Man is coming!”

And you will be taken. Like all of the others.

Both twins fell silent, then an instant later, they were both heaving Norman onto his feet. Slinging his arms around their shoulders to help him walk. Meanwhile, his grandmother was zipping about above the three of them, surveying the trees for any sign of impending danger. {It’s . . . It’s not here yet! At least, I don’t think so—}

“I can . . . walk on my own . . .” Norman insisted breathlessly.

“You’re sure?” Dipper asked hurriedly.

{—but it’s impossible to tell with this . . . _this goddamned fog_!}

“_Grandma_! But y-yeah,” Norman reaffirmed to his friend. “I can walk.”

“Okay. You walk. I’ll get the shovel and leaf blower to cover you. Mabel, you run inside and get the defenses switched on.

“Got it, Bro-Bro!”

“Alright. Break!”

Norman took his own weight, and just stood until he had fully recovered his equilibrium. Fortunately, the headache was starting the recede, and the cold with it—he felt normal again. Meanwhile, the behatted boy spun back around to grab his weapons (tucking the shovel down the back of his vest while cocking the leaf blower at the ready like a flamethrower) and the besweatered girl bolted forward for the back door of the Shack. One second later, she was out of sight. Five seconds later, there was a flash of blinding white light and a great revving roar from the left; the spotlights and industrial-sized fans had been activated.

{Keep going, Normy dear!} Elaine shouted over the whirring din. {You can rest inside!}

Once they reached the porch, Dipper steered his friend inside before slamming the door and throwing every bolt and reinforcement he could find. Mabel was muscling furniture in front of it as a barricade before he had even started the last one. And Waddles was running around squealing, not sure what was going on, but just as effected as everyone else.

And then, Mabel looked to her brother. As did Norman. They were both pale and breathing fast, but so was he. “N-now what?” Mabel quavered.

“Now . . . we wait for the Slender Man to come.”

You will not wait long. You do not have much time left.

“He—it—_is_ c-coming . . .” Norman stammered.

Dipper set his jaw, then nodded once. “Let. Him. Come. Or . . . it. Whatever. Let. _It_. Come . . . This would probably have sounded more badass if I knew whether it’s ‘him’ or ‘it’ . . .”

****

Beneath glitzy chandeliers, Soos sweated in the poofy “finery” of his acordeonista outfit. Perhaps it was the warmth of hundreds of people (and heated catering) crammed into a single ballroom; perhaps it was stress over his impending solo performance (which, unlike all previous performances, would be before his accordion-playing peers—before people who were qualified to judge him lacking); perhaps it was out of fear of the unholy retribution which Manly Dan might visit upon him if his botched playing cost Wendy and Wentworth first place; or perhaps it was from a nagging, unwavering sense of unease which had not left him since their abrupt departure from Gravity Falls more than six hours ago. Either way, the room was sparkling and Soos was sweating.

Wendy glanced sideways at him, then handed him her fancy napkin. “You got a lake on your face, man.”

“Wha? Oh, sorry . . .” As he dabbed at his forehead (and cheeks . . . and chin . . . and throat . . . and the sides and the back of his neck), the handyman wondered once again how the Corduroys could remain so . . . so aloofly untouched by their surroundings. All the boys were wearing tailcoat tuxedos with flannel vests and bowties (to match their manly dad’s outfit), and seemed cool as a spring morning in the mountains. Maybe slightly (but only slightly) uncomfortable to be wearing button-up shirts. But, at any rate, not sweating a drop—certainly not melting. And Wendy? In her turquoise gown, with flannel sash and scarf and high-heels (which were apparently a thing that lumberjack folk could and did buy), she was the coolest of them all. She looked just as aloof as she would behind the register back home. Maybe it was the fact that they all had a ceremonial hatchet sheathed at the small of their backs?

“Chillax, Soos. You’re easily one of the best accordion-men here,” she breezily interrupted his train of thought. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s not that, dude. Well . . . Not _entirely_ that. Maybe _a little_ that . . .”

“Okay. Then what?”

Setting the now moist napkin back on the table, Soos fretted, “I just . . . I just get this feeling that we’re not supposed to be here.”

Wendy now actually turned to look at him. “Where else would we be?”

“Like . . . the Shack, dude?”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she lounged back in her chair. “Nope. Stan said if I made the website, I’d get the weekend off. I made the website. I get the weekend off. Plus—”

“Yean, but do you think he actually _remembered_ his promise?”

“Pff. Not _my_ problem if he didn’t. That’s _his_ problem for being a bad manager. Plus, we both arranged to have this weekend off, like, _months_ in advance. Because we knew we’d be coming _here_ to take all of the first place trophies from these wimps—yeah, I’m talking about _you_, Amber Stephanson!” she added in a shout to a girl who was glaring at her from another table. “You are going DOWN!”

“You and your whole family are killing the planet!” Amber Stephanson shouted back.

“DOWN! Like a TREE! CHOPPED right at the knees! With my AX!” Wendy retorted. “Anyway . . .” she then said to Soos, “What were we talking about?”

“Being here, and not at the Shack.”

“Oh, right. Well, like I said, we arranged it months in advance, so . . .”

“But I think that kinda got nullified by an emergency this morning? So what if Stan finds out? You could get in so much trouble, dude.”

Wendy smirked. “And what about you?”

“I sorta hope the fact your family kinda _kidnapped_ me will maybe be an attenuating circumstance for him.”

“Heh . . . Good times . . . But, yeah, it totally won’t; not with Stan.”

“I know . . .” Soos said resignedly. “But, that’s not what’s _really_ got me worried. It’s the twins.”

“Dips and Mabes?” Wendy asked in mild incredulity. “They’re, like, technically teenagers now. They can officially take care of themselves without a babysitter. Besides which, they’re kickass.”

“It’s just, last night, they were really spooked about some sorta monster.”

Wendy raised an eyebrow. “Them? _They_ were spooked about a monster?”

Making an “I know, right?” gesture, Soos continued, “Really spooked, dude. Like, _freaking_ _out_. And they said it was what had taken kids all over town. I was gonna be there to, y’know, back them up.”

The redhead soberly considered that point for a while. Eventually, she shrugged, “Like my dad was ever gonna let you back out of this. You couldn’t’ve _not_ come, man.”

“But what if they need us?”

“Soos, those two can handle _anything_ together. They could _before_ they turned thirteen, and they still can _after_,” she stated. “They could probably handle the freakin’ end of the world together. So stop worrying, alright? I mean, we’re running out of napkins here.”

The handyman slumped into his chair. “I’ll try, dude . . .”

“Would eating the rest of my crème brulé make you feel better?” Wendy knowingly offered.

“It . . . might . . . a little . . .”

She was just pushing it over to him when, suddenly, she stood up in her seat. “Whoa! Soos, check out the couple that just walked in! That woman looks like some sorta Greek Goddess in a . . . Would you say that’s a ‘Dia de los Muertos’ type mask?”

The handyman looked, and his jaw dropped. “Holy Guadalupe of Our Lady of Guacamole . . .”

“I know, right? I love her moon mask. She’s like a . . . moon . . . goddess. Or something. Though the fact she’s carrying a coffee mug is a little weird—doesn’t really go with the outfit.”

“Still, she walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies . . . And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes . . .”

Wendy looked at Soos in surprise. “That was beautiful.”

“That was poetry.”

“Yeah, I got that much. Did you write that?”

“Nah, some dead British guy. I had to memorize it in high school. And I’d say it’s more of a . . . Venetian Carnival type mask, dude.”

“Well, it’s amazing. She definitely gets the award for best dressed,” Wendy willingly ceded.

“What about her companion? The gentleman with the lordly bearing . . . and also his own coffee mug for some reason?”

Wendy snorted. “Lordly bearing? Now _you_ are starting to sound like some dead British guy.”

Soos gestured expansively at the man in question. “He’s wearing a gold suit and a sun mask, Wendy. A freakin’ _sun_ _mask_. Walking through this place like the freakin’ sun with the moon on his arm. And everyone is just sorta . . . _gravitating_ around them. Look, did you see that? He just handed his empty mug to some random person, and the person took it and _thanked_ _him_! So how else would you describe his bearing?”

For a moment, the redhead watched the two perambulate through the ballroom, apparently bedazzling everyone they encountered. Quite a feat in a room full of people come to compete at tango. And charming everyone they encountered, it seemed. An even bigger feat in a room full of people come to compete at tango. And yet, something about the golden man seemed . . . “Strangely familiar . . .”

“You know him?” the handyman asked, astonished.

“Maybe . . . Probably from another dance competition. My dad _does_ kinda sorta know _everyone_ in the circuit,” she reasoned aloud. “I’ll get a better idea when I see them dance.”

Soos gasped in delight. “You think they will?”

“I think they’d better, or they wasted wearing the snazziest outfits here.”

“Dude, if only Mister Pines could see that! Surely, seeing the channeled passion of the tango performed by these two celestial avatars would convince him of its inherent beauty.”

“Talking like a dead British guy again, Soos,” Wendy absently teased him—absently, because she was deep in thought. Then, slowly, she turned to face Soos. “Didn’t you say he had you play _tango_ _music_ last night during a date?”

“Who? Mister Pines? Yeah, he did. Which was strange, but maybe a good sign that he is finally coming around to the tango. Like the Grinch for Christmas, perhaps his tango heart was on the verge of growing three sizes yesterday?”

“Maybe . . . He danced with a woman while you played, right?”

“I presume so, dude. But I was wearing a blindfold, so . . . Coulda been a guy with a high voice.”

“Pff. Right . . . Anyway, that’s a pretty strange thing to do the night before a tango competition. Especially when he disappears the day of—for the whole day, even—with some mystery woman.”

Soos met Wendy’s eye. “You don’t think . . . ?”

Both looked back towards the masked couple in gold and silver. Both looked at each other.

“_Nnnoooooo_ . . .” the redhead finally said. “It _couldn’t_ be. There’s _no_ way . . . Not _Stan_ . . .”

“Of course, just to be safe . . .” Soos reasoned slowly, “we might want to . . . stay out of his sight. Just to definitely avoid getting in trouble.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt,” Wendy agreed. “Hey, you still want my crème brulé?”

“Dude, you know it.”

****

Smooth and sleek as an obsidian shark, a vehicle pulled up in front of the Hotel Jeru, Salem. Between its tinted windows and the late hour, it was all but impossible for any passersby to see inside. The occupants liked it that way; they preferred their affairs remain covert. It was easier to maintain their aura of clandestine dignity if no one saw their . . . peculiar business habits. Such as holding a gilded card, like a High Priestess tarot to their forehead while slowly perusing the building in front of them.

A soft, round man asked, “Ehehehehehe?”

His partner—a man with hard, sharp features, like a knife—smiled thinly. “Si, mi amigo. _Here_. We have _finally_ found La Contable—after a week, _a full week of maddening frustration_—and she is here. Are you prepared to go to work?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si, it is true, and your dedication and enthusiasm for our work is your most admirable trait—I have always said so. Now, let us verify our tools.”

From the sheathes hidden under the long sleeves of his florid tourist’s shirt, the soft, round man drew his twin knives. Thin as stilettos and sharp as razors, they gleamed lethally in the dashboard light. He double-checked the buckle of his belt, and found that it was still a concealed dagger—it had not somehow transformed during the course of their twelve hour drive—but professionals _always_ check. The fanny pack still had all six shuriken. His left shoe still concealed a hidden blade. His Nikon D4 camera still contained several charges of C-4 explosives.

“Ehehehehehe?”

The man with hard, sharp features glanced up from his one handgun—small and low caliber, but perfectly assembled and maintained, with flawless firing action—then nodded slowly. “Si, I agree that you should bring the explosives. Just in case,” he elaborated. “She has eluded us for a week. Even eluded the Deck of Providence. We know not how she did this, so we shall go prepared to deal with _anything_. But,” he stipulated as he screwed on the silencer, “we are not here to make pretty colors and lights unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si, I know you know, si. I only remind you, mi amigo. Our job is to bring her back—preferably alive—with El Cartel’s Granos Dorados (and the fifty million she stole, if possible). This we can achieve more easily if there are not inexplicable explosions on American soil. You understand how Americans are about inexplicable explosions. Next thing you know, they will be shouting about Muslim terrorists and shutting down all flights in or out of the country, and it will be _another_ month before we can slip secretly across the border and return home.” Holstering the silenced weapon inside his jacket, he then verified the second magazine of ammunition in his pocket.

“Ehehehehehe . . .”

“Si, mi amigo, I am quite ready to return home, as well. I have had quite enough of this . . . _job_,” he said, as though referring to something foul and filthy. “So let us be done with this job, and as covertly as possible. Do you have your lock picks and magnet-strip key card? And your FBI credentials?”

“Ehehehehehe!”

The man with hard, sharp features smiled. “Si . . . Then no door shall remain closed to us, for I have mine, as well. Just let me do the talking.”

They both exited their vehicle, equipped for their work . . . but unprepared for the stiffness and soreness that assaulted them as they moved for the first time after hours of driving.

“Ehe-he-he-he . . . HE!”

“SSSIIIIII . . . Oh, mi todo . . . Never has any job caused as much trouble or discomfort as this . . .” The man with hard, sharp features hissed. “Vamos, mi amigo! We finish this _now_.”

****

It was not a central table where they seated themselves, nor a table at the head of the ballroom, but for how all eyes kept turning to the man in gold and the woman in silver, it might as well have been. Like the sun and the moon, their splendor just seemed to draw the gaze of others. Certainly, their air of mystery did not diminish this pull which they exerted on all others there; they were masked incognitos, and yet decidedly not anonymous. Hidden, yet visibly present. Famous, yet unknown and unknowable. Maddeningly known unknowns and tantalizingly unknown knowns through the simple act of existing. Little wonder they instantly became the talk of the ballroom—especially of its organizers. Those who had not already crossed paths with them during their stately (and fashionably late) entrance quickly took the occasion to introduce themselves to these fabulous, mystery attendees . . . all in the hopes that they would introduce themselves in turn. But they never did

“Frederick Floret III. Such a delight to have you with us tonight, Mister . . . ?”

“Just call me ‘Mister Mystery’.”

“Ahaha! Yes, of course. It certainly fits. And you, Miss?”

“Missus. Missus Mystery.”

“I might have known.”

“I absolutely adore your ensemble, my dear. So empowering! Oh, by the by, Clarissa McNaulty.”

“Encantada, Señora. Your dress is likewise—how do you esay?—esublime!”

“And the mask! Flawless! But I will admit, it makes me positively pandoraic to know who is underneath it . . .”

“Just a fellow lover of the tango, Señora.”

“Oh, come now! We’re all among friends here. Surely you can give us a hint as to who you really are under that divine Diana display?”

“No one you have ever met in real life.”

“Dreadfully dull during these lulls, isn’t it? If you ask me, there’s far too much chitchating and not enough chachaing at these events. As if we all hadn’t been to far too many rubber chicken fundraises as it is. Oh, how rude: Robert Meredith, old boy. But I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“I don’t believe I dropped it. But you can call me ‘Mister Mystery’, if you need a name.”

And so on and so one with half a dozen other socialites, all angling for an admission or a lapse from the resplendent couple. Apparently, however, they lacked the proper bait; no one ever landed anything from them beyond infuriatingly vague (and even more infuriatingly charming) small talk. Amongst themselves, however, they did manage to net a bit of information.

“They’re registered for the event as Andrew and Consuela Alcatraz.”

“Aliases, if ever I’ve heard one.”

“Well, obviously. But they are committed to them. Those are the same names under which they’re registered with the hotel.”

“Now that’s dedication to a cover story, if ever I’ve seen it.”

“Couldn’t we just have someone check the name on the credit card they used to pay for both? Steinbach, my dear, don’t you _own_ this hotel?”

“Already tried that. They _didn’t_ pay with a card.”

“No!”

“Yes. They paid with _cash_ in both instances.”

“Good heavens. In this day and age? I only use cash for bribes and prostitutes.”

“Mysterious and mysteriouser . . .”

“Rather, old boy, ‘anonymous and anonymouser’.”

“Ahaha! Yes, of course. Cheers to that!”

“But who would go to such lengths—aliases, cash, masks—to remain anonymous _here_? This is _the_ social event of the season. Even if you’re not here to _dance_, you’re still here to be _seen_!”

“Come now! It’s someone who would otherwise be disqualified from the brackets.”

“A reasonable guess, if ever I’ve heard one, except . . . they are _not_ registered in any brackets.”

“No!”

“Yes. They are only here for the walk-in dance-off later tonight, it seems.”

“Well, that would explain the fashionably late arrival . . .”

“But then . . . who _could_ they be?”

“What if . . . Do you suppose it could actually be Patrick Swayze?”

“What? Ahaha! No, of course not! He rebuffed all our invitations.”

“Think about it, my dear. What would have happened if he had accepted? Hmm? The place would be swarmed with paparazzi. Hardly an intimate or even fun gathering if all Swayze wanted was an evening out for some dancing with his alleged lady love, Iris Chacon.”

“Well . . .”

“She does make a good point, our Clarissa . . .”

“Just think . . . Patrick Swayze and Iris Chacon . . . _here_ at _our_ fundraiser . . .”

“I am thinking about it, old boy. Got me rather steamed, actually.”

“Oh, come now! Whatever for?”

“All that publicity we could be capitalizing on, slipping right through our fingers!”

“Oh . . . Ahaha . . . Yes, of course. What can we do to rectify that?”

“I should think it rather obvious, old boy: we must unmask them.”

“That’s a foolhardy idea, if ever I’ve heard one.”

“Why? You think they might hold a grudge against us and never return?”

“No, because they’re headed out onto the dance floor right this very moment.”

And, much to the dismay of the socialites, the man in gold and the woman in silver were indeed no longer seated, but making their way to the dance floor.

****

Norman sat on the stairs with his head in his hands and the hefty, defensive flashlight in his lap. The constant drone of the fans outside was strangely enervating—a white noise, from among the white spotlights, that seemed to drown out his thoughts. Not that he was unhappy about that, plus it helped alleviate his headache; it was almost gone by now. Finally, he didn’t have to be on constant guard to keep the negative thoughts at bay. But it did make his head heavy from the ears inward. And, of course, all the draining experiences from the day before (not to mention the physical exertion of that very day) hadn’t left him much energy for constant vigilance now, as they all waited under a slow-dragging siege from the night itself. Plus, the sweater Mabel had loaned him was nice and warm and cozy. So was Waddles, curled up beside him on the stairs. It was getting harder and harder, as the night dragged on, to not lean against the banister . . . to not close his eyes, just for a moment . . . just to rest them for a moment, so he’d be more awake right afterwards . . .

Awake enough to keep Dipper and Mabel from being taken, like in his vision . . .

His vision, where all the kids had been hanging—a metaphor? a reality?—from the wall . . .

Because he hadn’t been able to recognize the Slender Man soon enough to stop him—or it—from taking the kids . . .

And the ghosts, hanging from the wall like the kids . . .

Because he’d let them fight to protect him—him and Mabel and Dipper . . . especially Dipper . . .

Sacrificed them—sacrificed his oldest friends in this weird, messed up town—to save Dipper . . .

Sacrificed them like they were nothing . . . Even Detoby, even after all Detoby’d done for him . . . The good jokes and the attempted jokes and the failed jokes . . . And the investigatory insight . . .

Never deserved Detoby’s friendship . . . Never appreciated it, not if he’d been willing so quickly to throw it away . . .

Was Detoby gone now? Gone for good, like Neil? Was there still hope to save him?

Is that what the vision had meant—that they were trapped somewhere, and could still be freed?

Or did it mean they were truly dead now, like corpses hanging from a wall? Suffering?

Detoby didn’t deserve that . . . Couldn’t honk his horn like that, not ever again . . .

All his fault . . .

And Mister Whitehawk . . . Couldn’t go fishing where he was . . .

His fault . . . It should’ve been him instead . . .

And Grandmother Chiu . . . Couldn’t teach anyone anymore Korean . . .

His fault . . . Should’ve been him . . . His fault . . .

And Doctor Pincus . . . Couldn’t check anyone else’s teeth now, like he loved doing . . .

His fault . . . Should’ve been him . . . His fault . . . Should’ve been him . . .

And Detoby . . . Especially Detoby . . . Not even Detoby could joke about that situation . . .

His fault . . . Should’ve been him . . . His fault . . . Should’ve been him . . . His fault . . .

When the Slender Man came, maybe if he just went with him or it or whatever . . . maybe . . . maybe then all the kids and the ghosts would be freed, since he or it only wanted him . . .

Had only ever wanted him . . .

Everyone else taken because he hadn’t just gone from the beginning . . . All his fault . . .

But he could fix it if he just—

Wait . . . No, that didn’t . . . didn’t make sense. Even guilt wouldn’t make that make sense . . .

Stope sacrificing others. Sacrifice yourself for others. Walk out into the fog and—

Wake up. Wake up, now. Wake up! WAKE UP!

Norman lolled into motion. A slow roll, as if his mind were dragging the rest of his body awake—dragging it behind him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, so he had no idea which way he was lolling exactly. A second later, he thunked face-first into the banister. Then, the flashlight which the twins had loaned him went thunking down the stairs, followed by a startled Waddles dashing off.

Dipper started around from his post beside the front door. “Whoa, heh . . . You okay, man?”

“Owww . . .”

As Dipper retrieved the flashlight and set it back beside his friend, he asked, “Fall asleep?”

“. . . Mmmaybe . . .”

“Didn’t hurt yourself, did you? That sounded pretty loud.”

Rubbing his forehead, Norman mumbled, “No, m’fine . . . Miss anything?”

“Just a whole lot of nothin’,” Mabel answered from the kitchen door. “Dipstick here’s been watching the road for-ev-er and not letting me make us some hot chocolate.”

Tersely, her brother stated, “We don’t need the distraction right now. Not when it could come at any minute.”

“You’ve been saying that for-ev-er!” Mabel protested. “When Normy said Slendy was coming, I thought he meant _right away_ . . . not, like, _eventually_.”

“Well, this is how—”

“Not like in the sense that new ‘Steven Universe’ episodes are eventually coming. One day in the distant future.”

“Well, this is how a siege works!” Dipper snapped back. “You wear down the people inside by always being there—and the Slender Man probably is there right now, FYI, in the fog and the woods—and always ready to attack (so they’re tense and on the defensive), wait for them to get tired and finally lower their guard, then—bam!—you attack.”

“Getting hot chocolate isn’t lowering our guard,” she contested. “It’ll make us sharper. Alerter. Readier. Awaker. Not dozing off, like Normy did. Plus, we could always throw the hot chocolate in Slendy’s face, if it attacks. Like boiling oil, but milky chocolatey. How’s _that_ for a siege strategy?”

“What? ‘Slendy’?” Norman repeated woolenly. “Are we, like, besties with it now, or something? And where’s . . . Oh no! Where’s Grandma?!” he asked in a sudden panic.

“Um . . . Probably still patrolling around the Shack, like you said she would—”

“Over an hour ago. An hour _without_ hot chocolate,” Mabel interjected.

Dipper ignored her, instead asking his friend, “Remember? You said—”

Spurred into action, the Medium leapt up, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “GRANDMA? GRANDMA! WHERE ARE YOU?! GRAND—”

Elaine burst through the wall. {I’m here, Normy! I’m here! What’s wrong?!}

“Oh, thank goodness . . . Y-you’re safe . . .”

{Of course I’m safe,} the ghostly grandmother said reassuringly. {There’s a whole ring of open space around this old cabin, completely clear of fog thanks to those fans. And bright as a summer day, thanks to those lights. Must be a good ten feet wide. No way the Slender Man can reach me across it.}

“For a m-minute, I thought . . . I th-thought . . . L-lost you,” Norman sniffed. “Like the others . . .”

“Whoa. Whoa, man,” Dipper said soothingly. “We haven’t lost anybody. We’re still going to get them back. After we exorcize the Slender Man, remember?”

“You’re just worked up,” Mabel reassured him gently. “Stress and everything. Probably had a bad dream or another vision or something, too.”

Elaine made the motion of laying a hand on her grandson’s shoulder. {I’m not going anywhere, dear,} she promised him.

Norman gulped thickly. “Y-yeah . . . You’re right. You’re all r-right. Sorry, just . . . just got thinking about the other g-ghosts, and . . . and felt guilty, I g-guess. It’s stupid, I know. But . . . yeah . . .”

“Y’know what would perk you right up?” Mabel rhetoricized cheerily. “A warm beverage. Something with a smooth, sweet flavor and a creamy consistency. Perhaps for which the Swiss are famous, or the Belgians, or the French (but definitely a francophone group)?”

Dipper heaved a sigh. “Fine, Mabel. Go make some hot chocolate.”

“Yay!”

****

“If I’d known there were goin’ to be so many nosy rich folks here, I’d’ve worn a spicier cologne. Something like ‘Pepper Spray’, by Givenchy,” the sun quipped to his companion.

The moon chuckled at that. “It is because we wear masks. Have you never noticed that men want most to esee what is hidden from them?”

“Noticed? I use that fact to sucker rubes on a daily basis,” he boasted. “Tell someone there’s a quote unquote secret no one else got to see, and they’ll pay you double just to be more special than everyone else. Even when they know they’re paying to see a sham . . . Heh. Sometimes _especially_ then.”

“It is the esame. Esactly the esame,” she explained. “They do not know who we are—none of them know this—eso they all want to be the one to esearch out.”

“Well, we could be anybody. Even . . . I dunno . . . Patrick Swayze and Iris Chacon. Ha! As if!”

“But, mi eStanford, you are too cruel to yourself; you have better hips than Iris Chacon!”

Stan laughed aloud. “You saucy, spicy, little hot tamale!” Then he pulled her close and whispered, “I could just eat you up!”

Flirtatiously, Esmerelsa distanced herself as far as his hold would allow. “No! I could never be with a man who does not even know the esingular of ‘tamales’ is ‘tamal’, no matter how more good his hips than the legendary Iris Chacon! I would not respect myself in the morning.”

“I know that the singular of ‘tamales’ is ‘tamal’ now, don’t I?”

She turned back to him, then nodded coquettishly. “I esuppose you do . . . Perhaps I can be with you after all.”

Leaning in close to her sparkling, silver face, Stan murmured, “I gotta say . . . tonight, I can relate to what those nosy, rich folks are feelin’. See, as long as you’re wearin’ that mask, I can’t see the beautiful face underneath.”

“Qué encantaro!” she almost swooned.

“And it’ll be really hard to kiss you with these masks on. And as long as we do have them on, we’re not goin’ to be truly alone here. Those nosyocialites aren’t goin’ to truly leave us be.”

Laying a hand beside his gleaming, golden visage, she contritely replied, “I know and I am esorry, mi eStanford. But there can be no photos of me. No record that El Cartel could use to find me—find _us_.”

“Just as well,” he relented. “My memory’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been banned for life from all events hosted by this International Tango Thingy.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh . . . It may or may not involve getting really drunk one year and releasing a live bear on roller-skates into one of their events.”

She laughed disbelievingly.

“It was . . . the anniversary of Panama, y’see.”

She stopped laughing. Instead, she held him tighter. “I esee . . . That day was never good for me no more. No, that is not way you esay in English . . .” She clicked her tongue and waved dismissively, unconcerned with the proper phrase. “We are _here_ and _now_, you and I. That is what counts. And we are going to _dance_ here and now, you and I. Not just dance, but win this—how do you esay ‘concurso’?—this _competition_! Let us eshow these _amateures_ what it really means to tango, mi eStanford!”

Beneath his sun mask, Stan ginned. “To do that, though, we’re gonna need the right music . . . The right _song_. Y’know the one I’m thinking, right?”

Beneath her moon mask, Esmerelsa grinned back. “The esong they played when you and I tangoed like our lives depended on it in the eslums of Bogota!”

“Exactly. We won with that song _then_, and we can win with it _now_. It’s just a matter of . . . incentivizing the band. Follow me!”

Together, the couple wound their way surreptitiously towards the official band of the free entry dance competition. It consisted of a guitarist, an accordionist, a trumpeter, a drummer, and a singer: the basic combination—the basic recipe—of perfection.

“Can I help you?” the lead musician asked after noticing them standing there glitteringly.

“Actually, yes. We have a song request for the big dance that everyone can enter,” Stan said.

With a sigh, the musician recited their answer, “That song is to be randomly selected at the time of the dance itself from a pre-selected list. No one but us is allowed to even know what’s on the list.”

“Oh, we’ve got no problem with all that. We just wanted to maybe _add_ one song to the list (assuming you were crass enough not to have it on there already) . . . and maybe kinda sorta _remove_ all the other songs from the list, too. Then you can randomly select to your heart’s content.”

“So you want to make a random selection be not at all random? I don’t think we can do that.”

“Not even if it was . . . an executive order?” Stan asked as he sneakily slid a bill out of his sleeve. It was a five-dollar bill.

“Sir, are you trying to bribe us with a—”

Behind him, Esmerelsa produced a wad of American currency (from somewhere on her person, though the tightness of her dress begged the questions: Where? How?) and waved it enticingly. Every member of the band ogled it in disbelief.

Oblivious to her intervention, however, Stan continued, “Yes, this is a bribe. I am bribing you. Take the bribe.”

Behind him, Esmerelsa nodded encouragingly.

“Well, uh . . . What’s the song you wanted to add, anyway?”

“It’s called ‘Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood’.”

The band leader glanced at the wad of cash. “Not gonna lie . . . That _is_ a good song.”

“I _love_ that song,” one of the other musicians chimed in.

Another added helpfully, “Yeah, me too. I play it as much as I can. We all do.”

“We’d play it tonight anyway, if we had the choice,” a third stated leadingly.

The leader nodded thoughtfully, though their eyes were fixed on the wad of cash once again. “Well . . . I suppose it isn’t unethical if we accept a bribe to do something we _would_ do anyway . . .”

Stan grinned. “That’s the spirit!” He laid his five-dollar bill on a music stand, then waited while his companion advanced to shake the lead’s hand with a warm “Gracias!” Sharp as his old con man’s eyes were, even he failed to notice the wad change hands. She was just that good. If he had known, however, he would have found this underhanded competence very sexy. Because it objectively _was_. Underhanded competence is, objectively speaking, _always_ very sexy.

Besides, Esmerelsa immediately turned and (true to the first rule of all underhanded actions) redirected the old man’s attention. Specifically, she took him by the hand and led him directly out onto the dancefloor.

Instinctively, the other couples seemed to sense that something momentous was on the verge of happening, for they stepped aside for the moon and the sun. Stepped back, even, until a wide-open space had been left clear in the center of the room for the couple. A hush fell over the entire ballroom, like a summer night—not sleepy, but excited—enveloping the world inch by inch. The ambient lights were dimmed and the spotlights brightened to illuminate the space. Perhaps because the stage hands, instinctively, recognized that the moon and the sun must shine when they dance . . .

As Esmerelsa set her foot into that central space, the band leader began to clap rhythmically—one-two-three-four-one-two-three-four—a quick staccato to set a quick beat; a _human_ staccato to set a _human_ beat. The guitarist launched into a Latin jangle, fast and low, to pluck at something deeper than the heartstrings. Perhaps soulstrings. With it, Esmerelsa shifted her hand-hold on Stan, and he followed. As though their hands were already dancing together as smoothly in sync as their whole bodies would. They stepped in as one, took each other in their arms as one, and began to move as one. Slowly at first, and without any flourish or embellishment, but with such technical precision that none present could fault them.

Fast and bold, the trumpet rang out. If love is a battlefield, then it was the clarion call to form up with one’s ally. And form up both sun and moon did—maneuvering together so perfectly that neither could flank the other. They spun together like a glistening cannonball (or a classy discoball) in a blur of silver and gold. Their steps were so fast, yet so precise . . . so passionate, yet so intricate . . .

From the crowd, Soos intoned, “So bright . . . Hurts to look, but _too_ _beautiful_ to look away . . .”

And then, as sudden as the words which _must_ be said, yet are so hard to say that one must rip them out of one’s own heart, the band leader began to sing:

Baby, do you understand me now?

(Stan and Esmerelsa broke apart—)

Sometimes I feel a little mad.

(—but, still moving in perfect sync, they spun—)

But don’t you know that no one alive can always be an angel?

(—until they stood on opposite ends of the central, wide-open space.)

When things go wrong, I seem to be bad.

(They both froze for a beat, then sambaed on the spot.)

But I’m just a soul whose intentions are good!

(He sambaed, clapping in time with the beat, while she flamencoed closer.)

Oh Lord! Please don’t let me be misunderstood!

(She sambaed, clapping in time with the beat, while he charged to her. And swept her up.)

While the music soared around the room, Stan carried Esmerelsa in his arms around the space. She posed as though she were flying—as though she were soaring with the music—and all watched breathlessly to see the music carry two souls thusly. One on his own feet and one in the other’s arms. Then the band leader continued to sing this lover’s lament:

If I seem edgy, I want you to know

(“Wow!” Soos exalted. “Look at them go . . .)

that I never mean to take it out on you.

(. . . I didn’t know a person could support all their weight that low—let alone two at once.”)

Life has its problems and I got my share.

(Wendy nodded. “It’s a really hard move . . .)

That’s one thing I never meant to do, ‘cause I love you!

(. . . which I guess proves how silly it was for us to think that guy could be Stan.”)

Oh! Oh, baby, don’t you know I’m just human?

(Soos chuckled. “Dude, you said it. To do that, well . . .)

I have thoughts like any other one.

(. . . he’d have to take some sorta super secret substance only available to the richest and—”)

And sometimes I find myself long regretting

(“Holy crap! Did you see that?!” Wendy exclaimed. “She just flipped over his arm!”)

some foolish thing—some little stupid thing—I’ve done.

(Soos shook his head in wonder. “And kept going, as though it were the most natural—”

But I’m just a soul whose intentions are good!

(“Holy crap! _He_ just flipped over _her_ ar—”)

Oh Lord! Please don’t let me be misunderstood!

(—HOLD CRAP! _THEY BOTH JUST FLIPPED OVER EACH OTHER’S ARMS_!”)

(“B-but _how_?” Soos sputtered in disbelief. “That move should be _physically_ _impossible_!”)

Oh Lord! Please don’t let me beee misunderstood!

(“. . . Dude, Wendy, check it out,” Soos said, pointing into the crowd. “Your dad is crying . . .)

Don’t let me be . . . Don’t let me be misunderstooooood!

(. . . And your brothers, too. I never thought I’d see tha—Wendy, are you crying, too, dude?”)

No no no noooooo . . .

(“N-no! I’m not c-crying . . . just because it’s t-too beautiful for words . . .”)

(“Sure looks like you’re crying, dude.”)

(“Sh-shut it! I’m not crying! You’re crying! Everyone b-but me is crying!”)

In a sudden, final eruption of sound (though, really, not all that sudden, as there are only about six different ways to end a musical piece), the song climaxed as Stan and Esmerelsa whirled into a pose facing the spectators—one arm around the other’s waist, the other thrown wide and high. And, though everyone present had seen scores and performed in dozens (at the minimum) of recitals before this impromptu exhibition, they went wild for it: they thundered applause down upon Stan and Esmerela and blew them away with a roar of cheers; no cyclone had ever been as wild as their adulation.

At least, not until the moon whipped around and pulled the sun into a kiss . . .

For a glorious moment, everything was perfect for Stanford Pines. He had the woman of his dreams in his arms (and part of her in his mouth), the accolades of the masses—their love and respect—and he felt great enough to appreciate it all. Like he was decades younger. That coffee Esmerelsa had brewed up for them from that one golden bean had really done the trick: woken them up, limbered them up, perked them up in both body and mind. Because of it, they’d both been able to remember (_and_ _actually_ _execute_) moves they hadn’t made since . . . _before_ Panama . . . And better now than then, too! And that was just from _one single bean_ (which she had already used _twice_ in the weeks before her arrival in Gravity Falls), _divided between two cups_! No wonder potentates were eating out of El Cartel’s hand for a few Granos Dorados! But that was all a digression arising from a mind which was abuzz with that perfect, glorious moment. Because that was what it was: glorious and perfect, perfect and glorious. He wanted it to never end.

But, sadly, that’s all one can expect from either glory or perfection: a moment. The kiss ended. And, though Stan immediately pulled Esmerelsa into an exultant embrace (through which, happily, the moment lasted), when he opened his eyes . . . he found himself looking straight at Soos and Wendy. Soos and Wendy, who were _here_ . . . and _not_ in Gravity Falls . . . at the Shack, _with Dipper and Mabel_ . . . where they were _supposed_ to be . . . He swore out loud.

She looked at him questioningly.

“I need to go make a call,” he stated over the din of applause.

“Now?” she asked. “But everyone will want to—”

“_Now_. Esmerelsa, it’s _very important_.”

“. . . I esee.” She took his hand and gestured for him to lead the way. “Then let us now go make your call, mi eStanford.”

****

Wiping a tear from his eye, the soft, round man observed, “Ehehehehehe . . .”

But his partner categorically shook his head. “Si, I _can_ and _do_ still hate tango music—even after that . . . that _shameful_ display of unbridled emotion,” he hissed. “Their technical precision changes nothing. Nothing! Tango music is the tool of the devil, and accordions are the . . . toolbox of the devil! Perhaps the _jukebox_ of the devil! And being around so many of them now . . .” With a shudder, he asserted, “It sets my teeth on edge, mi amigo. I must get out of here soon. I must!”

“Ehehehehehe.”

“Si. You are right. Si. I should simply focus on finding La Contable, so we can leave this wretched abode of the musically damned as soon as possible. Si. Truly, the frustrations and fatigue of this mission must be getting to me . . .” Then, drawing the High Priestess tarot card from his pocket, the man with hard, sharp features held it his forehead and slowly scanned the ballroom. Halfway through his scan, though, he stopped . . . then slowly—very slowly—reversed directions. As though tracking someone.

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si, I have found her. And she is . . .” Gazing into the teeming crowd adoring fans, he searched for the woman who was no longer middle-aged. He did not see her face, but there were many people therein. No matter. He only had to locate the woman who moved with the pull he felt through the card, and—“No . . . It _cannot_ be!”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si! Oh, I have _found_ her, mi amigo!” the man with hard, sharp features practically laughed. “And she is the very woman whose grace you were admiring! The silvery moon woman is La Contable! Vamos, she is leaving the room with her partner—and rather quickly, too. We must follow!”

“Ehehehehehe.”

“Si, the crowd following them will make it difficult to approach her, but it will dissipate soon. Until it does, it will serve us more than hinder us, for it will hide us from her sight. And then, once gone and she is isolated, we will move in and take her. Vamos, mi amigo!”

And, with that, the two men left the inconspicuous periphery of the corner to fall in step behind their prey. Completely unnoticed amidst the crowd of gaily dressed tango enthusiasts (except by the accordionists who the man in black curtly pushed out of their way).


	22. Chapter 22

Only one possible means of support remained to the obstacle. Demolish that, and the obstacle would be helpless—him and the mere morsels of mortals with him. No agents could come to save them. No countering ripples could forestall their fate. They would be helpless, and then they would be taken.

It was time to make the sixth and final ripple.

On Main Street, the knob to #13 rattled. Then, suddenly, it turned sharply once.

****

When people think of power plants, they tend to think of transmission struts and transformers as tall as Optimus Prime, or turbines and generators whirring and whirring tirelessly; they might think of cooling towers, like in “The Simpsons”; they sometimes think of giant boilers propulsing precipitators like the pistons of some enormous engine (which a power plant essentially is for a city, a county, a modern civilization).

They never think of Eugene Meyers at the distribution console—standing like a human failsafe over dozens of needles on slowly fluctuating scales, and the knobs that can regulate them up or down. But, if any one person could be the incarnation of the power plant, it was Eugene Meyers. By his actions were whole towns kept lit and humming . . . or plunged into absolute darkness. If the power plant was some enormous engine, then he was the key and the fuel gage and the thermometer all rolled into one. The importance of Eugene Meyers could not be overstated, even if he himself frequently understated it.

For thirty-three years, he had fulfilled the position of Outflow Monitor with stolid dependability. Day in and day out, he was at his post five minutes before his shift started. He had never missed a day due to illness, and had only ever taken six days off from work (each of them requested no less than three weeks in advance). And perhaps that was why, that one night, he felt he could indulge the bit of unexpected (but hardly unexpectable) veteran’s weariness that suddenly came over him.

It’s going to be a long night, and you’re already tired. You should get some coffee.

That was the thought he had. And, certainly, it seemed harmless enough. Even the best built machines wore down with age—the best keys/fuel gages/thermometers wore down with continual use. If a little coffee was all it would take to keep him on his feet, as indefatigable as he had been for over three full decades preceding this night, then surely it was worth getting a little coffee now. True, maybe one wasn’t supposed to bring liquids near the distribution console, yes, technically, but he knew as well as everybody else that everybody else brought all sorts of beverages—water and soda and energy drinks and, yes, coffee—near it all the time. All. The. Time. Without ever having the least bit of trouble. Without being as understatedly effective. Without being anywhere near as stolidly dependable. Surely, _he_ had earned a cup of coffee on the job. So he went and got himself a mug.

And then, as he returned to his work station, his foot caught on his own pant leg.

The dark liquid arced through the air like the falling Sword of Damocles for half a second. Paradoxically, given the sheer force of chaos it represented, it was almost graceful. Then it splattered over the console like a cloudburst of black rain, like the shattering of tinted glass, like liquefied obsidian. There was a paroxysm of electricity as the equipment blew out, a warning alarm that echoed throughout the complex as every single emergency shutoff activated, and a great decrescendo of sound and light. The plant automatically shut down, electricity ceased to be generated, and (in mere seconds) all of central Oregon went out like one gigantic lightbulb. The key had just been yanked out of the ignition, and modern civilization ground to a halt.

Eugene Meyers looked around in disbelief at the darkening disaster. The one time . . . the one, single, solitary time . . . he had brought a drink into this room . . . and it had resulted in the worst possible scenario he could have imagined . . .

He committed another first at work then: he swore. Just once, but it was paradoxically emphatic in an iconically understated, Eugene Meyers sort of way. “. . . _Damn_.” He punctuated it by smashing the coffee mug against the ground.

****

The liquid (if liquid it could rightly be called, given its thick consistency) did not so much swirl around Norman’s cup as jiggle; he did not so much take a sip of it as a nibble. “Wow. It’s, um, really . . . s-sweet. Thanks, Mabel.”

She beamed proudly. “That’s because of the secret, patented recipe I use: the Mabel Pines Guaranteed Best Cup of Hot Chocolate Secret, Patented Recipe!”

“You said ‘secret, patented recipe’ twice,” her brother stated before taking a bite out of his.

“So . . . what’s the recipe?” Norman asked.

Mabel beamed again. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to put your head on a pike.”

“Er . . . Or I could p-promise not to tell anybody, maybe?”

“Yeah, I guess that could work . . . Wish I’d thought of that before telling Jolene, though—that was our _last_ pike . . . Anyway, it’s: one part cocoa mix to one part marshmallows to two parts milk, microwaved on high until it all comes bubbling out of the mug.”

{So it’s basically half sugar?} Elaine surmised disapprovingly.

Casting his blue eyes back into the jiggling brown contents of his cup, Norman replied, “Well . . . That explains a lot . . .”

“Just consume it,” Dipper advised him. “We might need the energy before the night is up.” And then he took another bite out of his.

“Y-yeah . . . Heh.”

“What?”

“J-just thinking that . . . it’s prob’ly a g-good thing Doctor Pincus was taken, because if he . . . because if he s-saw me eat all this s-sugar, he’d . . . he’d spin in his grave,” the Medium said in a would-be joking rush.

Elaine looked over at her grandson with concern in her eyes. {Normy . . .}

“J-just thinking that, is all. It’s f-funny,” he insisted before chomping into his hot chocolate and forcing himself to swallow. The process felt harder than usual, though.

Mabel and Dipper both exchanged a glance. The one said, “You’ll feel better after the first cup,” as the other said, “We _will_ get them back. Really.”

Mechanically, Norman swallowed another bite. The process still felt harder than usual, though. Then, without much conviction, he responded, “Yeah, I know . . . S-sorry, I just . . . h-hard to stop thinking about—”

All of a sudden, the lights went out—both inside and outside the Shack. The revving of the fans dropped into silence, like the propeller of a plane as it drops out of the sky. For just a moment, everything was darkness and silence. Like the dead of night.

{What the—}

“Oh no—”

**LONELINESS**

****

It was like fighting through a gabby, congratulatory wall. All around were marveling faces and upraised hands wanting to shake his own, or embrace him, or pat him on the back, or just touch him. And so many voices coming at him all at once. But Stan had to shoulder through them. He had to reach the payphones in the lobby . . . had to call and make sure the kids were alright . . .

“That was amaz—”

“Never seen a simultaneous flip-a-dip-d—”

“How did you do it?! It was so perf—”

“Mi eStanford, slow down!”

“No! The other dancers really won’t have a _Ghost_ of a chance to—”

“I must say, old boy, your _Hat Trick Swayed Me_ to . . . Where are you going?”

“Where did you learn to—”

“A moment, old boy! I am _talking_ to you!”

How long had the kids been alone? How long since Soos and Wendy had left Gravity Falls? Hours? At least four. No, wait . . . the event had started at six o’clock. Started _hours_ ago. So double that, at least . . . _Half the day_? _All day_? Was _that_ how long the kids had been alone?

“Who made your outfits? Could you recommend m—”

“That was some _Dirty Dancing_, if ever I’ve seen it.”

“Ahaha! Yes, of course. Shame we can’t see just _One Last Dance_ before—”

“Mi eStanford, my hand!”

“Wait! Hold on a second! We know who you ar—”

“Old boy, come back here! I’d like a word with—for the love of—”

“Floret! Try and block them from getting past you! We must have proof for the tabloid—”

How had Stan let this happen? He was _supposed_ to be _their_ responsible adult. Their _guardian_. Yes, the man who guarded them from harm and kept them safe. And instead, he was here. On a _date_. When they were _alone_, hours away, and with some maniac running around town. How could he have let that happen?! How could he have been _so_ _selfish_?! How had he not thought about them _until_ _now_?!

“Such a delight to have you! Such a delight! You really must let me buy you both a—”

“Excuse me, get out of the way,” Stan snapped.

“You both can’t be in such a rush that you don’t have time for—”

“I said ‘EXCUSE ME’,” And Stan shouldered past the socialite.

“Would you be interested in giving private lessons to a young, aspiring, _rich_ danc—”

“Your footwork was so perfect! I can’t imagine—”

“How many hours did you have to—”

“Clarissa! His mask! You must get a hold of his—”

“Of course, my dear! Steinbach, prepare your cam—”

“eStanford! You are hurting my hand!”

“W-what?” The old man spun around to his companion, who was trying even then to extricate her hand from his grip. Surprised, he let her go.

“Gracias,” she said strainedly. “You _lead_. I will _follow_ you. You do not need to _drag_ me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I’s alright,” she stated. “Go. I am behind—”

A hand swam into Stan’s view, right by his eye, reaching for his mask. A voice triumphantly said, “And now, my dear Patrick Swayze!” Half-turning, Stan saw a socialite. He batted their hand aside, then threw a left hook. There was a collective gasp as his fist connected hard . . . with the camera of another socialite (who had been standing right behind the first, ready to take a picture of the unmasking). It sent the camera flying over the heads of the teeming crowd, who watched it as though at a tennis match. Afterwards, as a result, the crowd stopped teeming. In fact, they all fell silent and took half a step back.

“I need. To make. A call. On the payphones. Excuse me. Now. Please.”

The crowd (including the socialites) meekly parted for the sun; they had just been reminded that the sun can burn.

“Thank you.”

Once the man in gold and the woman in silver had swept out of the room (unfollowed by their throng of admirers), the socialites reconvened.

“Well, that aversion to being photographed . . . I’d say that rather proves it, does it not?”

“Ahaha! Yes, of course. Patrick Swayze (and probably Iris Chacon) came to our event.”

“I’m still rather steamed, though. We have no proof he was here.”

“Come now, my dear, we have more than enough for the tabloids to speculate.”

“No!”

“Yes. Remember, unsubstantiated speculation is what they do best.”

“Which should be more than enough for our event to get the extra publicity we want! Imagine! Next year, we could have double the attendance!”

“Such a delight that would be!”

“All we need to do is say the right word to the gossip columnists, and . . .”

“That’s a plan, if ever I’ve heard one.”

Meanwhile, in another part of the ballroom, Soos and Wendy were trapped in a purgatory of uncertainty. “But those moves! There’s no way he could—”

“But that punch! Dude, that was, like, his signature—”

“He’s not the only one who can throw a killer left hook.”

“You heard his voice!”

“There are . . . lots of people with a gravelly, old man voice . . .”

“Wendy, the obvious truth is that we are so dead (and fired) if he saw us.”

“We’re in the middle of this huge crowd, man. How wouldn’t’ve been able to see us.”

“But then why the sudden departure from the room _after he looked in our direction_?! Because _he did look in our direction_, dude!”

“He said he needed to make a call, though—”

“And who else do we know who still uses _payphones_ in this day and age because he doesn’t have his own cellphone, dude?!”

The redhead was stymied at that one. She had no response. No response other than, “. . . Crap.”

“We are so dead (and fired), dude!”

“Maybe if I stand behind you, the majority of his wrath will be used up before he gets to me . . .”

“Dude!” Soos shrilled.

“Look, he’s not gonna fire us,” Wendy placated her coworker and friend. “He needs us, because no one else in town is stupid enough to work for him. And if he doesn’t realize that on his own (which I’m sure he will, ‘cause you don’t live to be an old con man if you’re stupid), I’m pretty sure I got enough blackmail material to keep us both employed. Pretty sure . . . hopefully . . . one of us—meaning you—might need to take a pay cut . . . And anyway, we only took a day off. Big deal. And so did he. I’m sure Mabes and Dips handled everything fine. It’s probably been one of the most boringest days of their lives, given how few tourists we normally get this season (and especially lately).”

“But last night—”

“Look, Soos, I am telling you that they can handle it. Whatever it is, they can handle it.”

****

**LONELINESS**

There was the sound of screaming and breaking dishes! “Nononono!” and “It’s _here_! IT’S _HERE_!” and “I can’t handle this! I CAN’T HANDLE THIS!”

Choking on his own fear, Norman groped blindly about for the flashlight—WHERE WAS IT?! WHERE HAD DIPPER SET IT?!—but he couldn’t find it! He couldn’t find it anywhere!

**TAKE AWAY**

“I can’t find the light!”

{Normy, run! You kids need to run!}

“But I can’t find the light!”

“Forget the light!” Dipper shouted. “Get to the generator!”

“On it!” Mabel yelled.

Through the pitch blackness, Norman heard two sets of feet pound down the hallway! His panic redoubled; they were leaving him behind—leaving him alone in a house he didn’t know! “Wait! Wait for me! Don’t leave me!” he cried out.

They’ve already abandoned you.

{I’m still here!}

Finally, like the dead weight you are, they’ve left you—

“This way!” Dipper shouted back to him. “Follow us!”

“I c-can’t see!” Norman sobbed. “C-can’t find the l-light! Where’re you?!”

“Right here, Norm!”

“Dipper, we have to get that generator running before it gets in!” Mabel called.

“Just . . . one second . . .”

**FOREVER**

“Dipper!” Mabel shrilled.

And then, clumsy with lack of vision, Norman felt a hand fumble onto his shoulder—Dipper’s!—and along his arm to his hand! The relief was so great he thought he might cry, but there was no time; Dipper was already yanking Norman into a run—yanking him down the hall towards Mabel and the back door and the generator! “Hurry, man! Hurry!”

“I am, but . . . Grandma?!”

{Right behind you!}

“Go! Go!” Norman yelled, no longer caring about the darkness nor the flashlight he left behind.

Getting to the back door was a mad, bumbling obstacle course—it seemed like they tripped over or into every piece of furniture on the way—but then they were there, and Mabel was trying to heave the barricade aside and hold her grappling hook at the ready at the same time! The boys joined her, and together they slid the stack of obstacles aside just enough to slip out onto the porch!

Then Dipper was pressing the shovel into Norman’s hands (“Cover me!”) and fumbling over the generator in search for the rope starter!

“You’re covered! We got you!” Mabel replied with her finger on the grappling hook trigger and her eye scanning the perimeter!

{Got it!}

“Uh, r-right!” Norman agreed, not sure what he could actually do with the so-called weapon in his hands. But there was nothing to cover Dipper from. Not that any of them could see, at least. Just a thick curtain of fog, before a thicker curtain of woodlands, under the thickest curtain of autumn night.

“C’mon . . . C’mon . . . Where is it?!”

It occurred to Norman that the Slender Man could be hiding nearby—perhaps not even hiding, given how the fog was already creeping back up to the porch, but simply standing nearby—and none of them would be able to see it. Him. Whichever. Did it really matter? When it could be about to take—

“Got it!” Dipper crowed triumphantly! And then, with a jerk, he cranked the generator into life! It roared, and then the spotlights flickered, blazed, blinded! It roared, and then the fans sputtered, whirred, revved! Once again, the Shack stood like a lone fortress of manmade light and wind!

Mabel whooped. Norman laughed and sobbed with relief. Mabel wrapped one arm around Norman’s shoulders and the other around Dipper’s neck to hug them both tight in celebration. Dipper tried to cheer, but actually gagged. Then he laughed along with both of the others when Mabel loosened her grip on him.

Elaine tried to slap them all on the back, but failed (though it was still a nice gesture from her). And then, suddenly, she froze. {_Sweet mother of mercy_!}

“What is—oh!” her grandson gasped. “G-guys . . . _Look_!” he hissed as he pointed ahead of them.

Both Mabel and Dipper looked up, and their elation died on their lips.

Just beyond the defensive ring of light and wind stood a being that was impossibly tall, impossibly thin. A being that had no face. The Slender Man.

**NO FAIR**

Mabel whimpered and clung tighter to her brother and her friend. Dipper inhaled sharply and reflexively latched onto his sister and his friend. Norman gulped, then whispered a question. “D-did you guys see that?”

“W-what?”

“The way its f-face—or its no-face, I guess . . . I m-mean, the way another f-face seemed to . . . to push up from beneath the no-face?”

“W-what?” both twins asked again, clearly confused.

“It didn’t look like a . . . like a st-stretched scream when it s-said that?”

Uncertainly, his grandmother suggested, {I saw . . . something. Like a flicker?}

“You did?”

“Norm-Norm, it’s just . . . blank,” Mabel whispered back, though her eyes never left the creature that was just . . . just standing there, as if staring at them without eyes. “Unless . . .”

“Y-yeah?”

“Unless, maybe—”

**CHEATING**

“Can we have this discussion inside?” Dipper interjected. “Behind a door and a barrier? I don’t like being where this thing can . . . look at us, I guess?” A moment later, they were locked and barricaded back inside the fully lit house. Only then did Dipper ask of his friend (even as he continued to peer through the window at the Slender Man), “What’s this about a stretched scream?”

“Well . . . It’s j-just that s-sometimes . . . it sorta looks like there’s a face pushing up from under that b-blankness, y’know?” Norman said uncertainly. “D’you not see it?”

Shaking his head, the behatted boy asserted, “I don’t see anything there. No face at all.”

“Grandma? You said it ‘flickers’, right?” the Medium inquired of her.

{When it spoke, I thought I saw it change a little, but . . . I don’t know for certain, Normy dear.}

Once that had been transmitted to the others, Mabel nodded to herself. “I think, maybe, I’ve got an explanation for that . . . See, what if there actually _is_ something going on, but Dipper and me can’t see it because we’re not Mediums? Neither is your grandma, I know, but . . . well, not to be insensitive or anything, but she _is_ a bit more spiritual than either Dipper or me right now.”

“That . . . might explain it . . .” the Medium said pensively.

Dipper narrowed his eyes at the Slender Man. “You said it looks like it’s _screaming_?”

“Y-yeah, I think, or maybe . . .” Throwing his hands up in frustration, Norman confessed, “I just _don’t_ _know_ how to describe it. Firstly because it’s all . . . st-stretched. Like . . . _stretched_, y’know? Like this face is p-pushing up against some thin rubber or latex or something? But that’s the no-face we normally see. And the expression is always, like, c-contorted. So it _could_ be screaming . . . or laughing or anything, really. I j-just _don’t_ _know_ . . . W-wish you guys could see it, too—maybe you’d get it better . . .”

Both twins and the ghost considered that for a moment, but none had anything to contribute.

Eventually, the behatted boy tensed. “Slendy’s moving. Around the perimeter,” he added. “Maybe like he’s looking for a way in.”

**LONELINESS**

Mabel gulped. “Which you intend to give him.”

“Yeah. When we’re ready, though, to trap it/him,” he replied with grim determination. “But, uh, ‘til then . . . we should follow it/him as best we can. Not let it/him out of our sight.”

{Good thinking.}

“Y-yeah, I agree. With Grandma. Who s-said that’s a good idea,” the Medium explained.

Trailing the Slender Man eventually led them back to the front door, where Norman immediately pocketed the flashlight (“N-not gonna lose this again. No sir.”) and Mabel looped her backpack over her shoulders, then picked up her “drink” from out of the broken shards of her mug (and, of course, resumed consuming it—“No sense letting this go to waste! You guys should really finish yours while we have the chance.”). But then, it kept circling the Shack—always moving slowly around it, always with its blank face turned straight towards it. Circling and circling . . .

**TAKE WAY**

{You think it’s just going to keep doing this all night?}

“M-maybe he is. Just going to do this all night, I m-mean,” the Medium said for the others.

Dipper pursed his lips. “No, not all night . . . Just until we’re too tired to keep constant watch. More basic siege strategy, that’s what this is.”

“Slendy seems pretty crafty at this . . .” Mabel said nervously. “You think he has any idea what we’re planning?”

Her brother shrugged grimly. “No way to know for certain—not until we try.”

“Which is going to be . . . ?”

Looking intensely from his friend to his sister, Dipper seemed to be gaging their readiness. Or perhaps masking his own fear. Either way, he took a deep breath, then asked, “How about . . . now?”

**FOREVER**

Elaine placed a hand over her no longer beating heart. {Oh dear . . . Oh dear, oh dear . . .}

Mabel’s spine stiffened. Then, with a jiggly slurp, she swallowed the rest of her hot chocolate. “Ready when you are, Bro-Bro.”

Norman, pale as bone, only nodded once.

“You guys . . . sure you don’t want to finish your hot chocolate first? Maybe go to the bathroom, or . . . or anything?” Dipper asked, almost pleaded. “I mean . . . this is it.”

“We’re ready,” Mabel stated. “Oh, wait. WADDLES?! PANIC ROOM!” she suddenly called out. “GO TO YOUR PANIC ROOM, WADDLES!”

They heard a short burst of squealing and hooves scrabbling from another room, followed by the very unique but recognizably distinct sound of a pig clambering into a crawlspace under the stairs then between the walls. Well beyond reach of anyone or anything bigger or less limber than Mabel.

In answer to Norman’s blank stare, the besweatered girl explained, “I taught him to go hide when there’s trouble. In my experience, it’s a very useful trick. Okay,” she signed. “_Now_ we’re ready.”

{Speak for yourself . . .}

“Okay . . . Yes, okay . . . Norm’s got the flashlight, I’ve got the . . . the shovel and leaf blower—”

“And the k-keys to the golf cart?” Norman squeaked.

“Y-yeah. Right here in my . . . my pocket.” And Dipper tapped his thigh to prove it. “And Mabel?”

“Grappling hook: check. Backpack full of artillery: check. Two feet ready for . . . for _ass-kicking_: check and check!”

With a nervous laugh, her brother said, “Ha! M-Mabel, now’s not the time to swear!”

**GOING TO GET IN**

But she shook her head defiantly. “Dipstick, swearing was _made_ for times like this. We’re gonna kick Slendy’s slender _ass_.”

“Haha! M-Mabel, no!”

“Mabel, _yes_!” she countered. “Norm-Norm, what are we gonna do?”

The Medium glanced at his ghostly grandmother, then (with a mischievous little grin) averted his eyes from her so he could murmur, “K-kick the Slender Man’s slender _ass_.”

With a sigh, Elaine said, {Normy, dear, if you’re going to swear, do it _right_. Say it _loud_ and _angry_, like this: Kick the Slender Man’s _SLENDER_ _ASS_!}

So it was to the accompaniment of Norman’s nervous giggling that Mabel turned to her brother. “Well, Bro-Bro? What are we gonna do?”

“I’m not gonna swear, Sis; I’m gonna do this with some fricative class.”

“You . . . shan’t?” she teased him.

Rolling his eyes, Dipper marched out of the room, “Whatever. Let’s just do this already. C’mon, you two potty-mouths, back to the living room so we can trap this pottygeist—”

“You mean ‘poltergeist’, right?” Mabel larked after him.

“—and I don’t have to be stuck under siege with you anymore.”

“You know you love it.”

“Yeah . . .” he murmured. “Which is why this _has_ to work . . . You coming, Norman?”

“R-right behind you!”

Dipper nodded, his fear giving way to his tactical side as he explained, “Good. Okay. Once there, I’m gonna pull the plug for the Shack’s left flank. One of the windows is unlocked, so . . . so that’s where he’ll likely come from. Leaving the front door open for an escape, if we need it. Okay? Okay. Good. _Okay_. When I do, make sure you both kinda scream, y’know? Gotta sell it. Want him to believe it. Okay?”

“Okay. Good,” Mabel answered as they marched into the living room. “You . . . You ready?”

“. . . No,” Dipper replied honestly, laying the journal on the dinosaur skull footrest before him. Opened to the bookmarked page with the exorcisms. “But here we are, so . . . Norman, you good?”

Brown eyes met blue eyes, and they held for a moment. From that, the boy with vertical hair found the strength to quaver back, “Let’s . . . k-kick some slender ass!”

“Okay . . . Good . . . Good . . .” Then, after looking one last time at his sister and his friend, Dipper took hold of one of the extension chords running through the room. He clenched it. He gulped. He yanked it out of the socket. “Come and get us . . . _you_ _slender_ _bastard_ . . .”

Mabel laughed once, “Ha!” and then (true to the plan), she forced out a shriek.

****

Compared to the ballroom, the lobby of the Hotel Jeru, Salem was not so much glitzy as ritzy—which is to say that is was just as sumptuous, but in a way that was more burnished than sparkling. Warmer, more comfortable, not as formal. It still was formal, of course, just in less of a “black tie” way. Certainly, it was not the sort of place that one shouted across.

Unless one was Stanford Pines, that is. “HEY! CONSERGIO!”

The night manager, in a suit of the uniform plum color for hotel staff, looked over. In a tone of cool professionalism, they replied, “I believe the word you want is ‘concierge’, sir.”

“NO, THE WORD I WANT IS ‘PAYPHONES’! WHERE THE HECK ARE THEY?!”

“We no longer have payphones, sir. In this day and age, they are obsolete.”

“BUT I NEED TO MAKE A CALL! IT’S URGENT!”

“Sir, you do not need to shout. I’m standing right in front of you. And if you need to make a call, sir, we would be more than happy to allow you the usage of one of our office phones.”

“Oh, well . . .” Stan seemed almost bashful for a moment, but it soon passed. “Yes, that’ll do.” Once the receiver was in his hands, he dialed his own number—the number for the Shack. But the call wouldn’t connect. Instead, a bland, mechanical voice informed him that it was temporarily out of service due to technical difficulties, and asked him to try again later. He stared at the phone in disbelief. “I . . . didn’t forget to pay the bill, did I? No. No, I’m sure I paid . . . Maybe I fudged a number, or something?” He tried again, inputting each digit (verified out loud) with meticulous care. But the result was the same: the same bland, mechanical voice informed him once again that the number was temporarily out of—

“Mi eStanford, qué pasa?” Esmerelsa asked, seeing him jam the phone back on the hook.

“The call won’t go through . . . Something’s not right.”

“But this is how it is all week esince I came to town. The phones, they do not work eso good.”

“But the landlines seemed to be more-or-less working. This . . . this is _different_,” he asserted tensely. “I can _feel_ it. Something is _not_ right. At home. With the kids.”

“But how can you—”

“We need to go back there, Esmerelsa. Now.”

“Mi eStanford, we cannot—”

“I have to! I need to get back to ‘em! I should never’ve left ‘em alone!”

“I mean we are four hours in car to be there,” she clarified. “If we must go, we go, but perhaps there is esomeone you could call who can esee to them esooner? And before we commit to eso long a drive in the dark?” she added as an afterthought.

“Uh . . .” Stan ran through the list of people in his mind he could count on. Soos! Nope, he was here at the competition. Wendy? Nope, she was also here (and saying he could count on her was maybe a bit of a stretch). Wendy’s family—like Manly Dan? They were probably here, too, if she was; besides, Stan didn’t know his number. Lazy Susan or Soos’ Abuelita? Maybe . . . but what could either of them realistically do if the kids needed help? Old Man McGuckett? Same issue . . . And did he even have a phone connection out in the dump? Sheriff Blubbs or Deputy Durland? Useless. And there was no way Stan was inviting cops onto his semi-legal premises if he had any other recourse. Toby Determined? Same problem as Susan or Abuelita. What’s more, if Stan called on him, the Monday edition of the “Gravity Falls Gossiper” would probably read “Local Man Is Negligent Guardian, Absolute Worst Ever, Snazzy Dresser”.

“eSurely there is esomeone? A friend?”

“Er . . . Well . . .” Jimmy at the supermarket? The man who ran the municipal pool? Bud Gleeful? That one annoying yet strangely cute biker? Wendy’s boyfriend—that punk kid who always smelled like body spray, and had threatened to beat up Dipper that one time? Mitch the bartender? Ghost Eyes? Bobby the bouncer? The guy who really liked pizza?

“A colleague? An amigo for the drinking? A casual acquaintance? A neighbor?”

All nopes. Every single one of them . . . This was just getting depressing.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Stan contested. “Because the call isn’t goin’ to go through. We need to get goin’ back there. Now.”

Esmerelsa sighed, then nodded once. “Por supuesto. We go, mi eStanford. I have the keys here. We go find the car in the garage and we leave at once.”

He nodded back, then began to walk. “Thanks. Sorry to . . . cut the night short like this.”

“eShort? But we had dinner and we tangoed and we won. And it is late, no? Almost midnight.”

“So you’re . . . not mad?” he asked tentatively.

“Mad?”

“Y’know . . . upset or angry?”

“No, mi eStanford,” she replied evenly. “I’m not . . . mad.” By then, they had entered the hotel’s parking garage and were moving across its identical segments of white- and yellow-painted concrete. Their footsteps echoed off of walls and cars and pillars in an uneven syncopation, as if a dozen people were walking around in there, though neither saw anyone ahead of them “Si, I _wish_ we could estay for the night here like lovers—leave behind all the cares of . . . the cares of your home and being a father. Especially esince I am esure there is no reason to worry for los chicos. But I understand you worry . . . You must, no? You always will. I can assept . . . assept that I will only be esecond for you. It is right.”

Stan stopped short so suddenly, she took another three steps before she realized it and turned. “Is that . . . what you think? You think you’re just . . . just some second priority for me?”

“Am I not?”

But it was another voice that answered first. A voice with a light Hispanic accent and a heavy undercurrent of menace. “Si, that is what you are for _him_. But not for _us_. No, for _us_, Señora La Contable, you are the first priority.”

Stan looked over his shoulder in confusion. “Huh?”

Esmerelsa’s blood ran cold. “No!” she whispered.

“Si!” the voice replied. And then, from behind a pillar to their rear—where they had furtively been following the two of them until now, when it was clear that no one else was present in the garage to witness whatever would transpire next—two men emerged. A man in a simple, black business suit with hard, shard features below a narrow and balding head; a man in garish colors (like only the tackiest of tourists would wear) who appeared soft and round, but was actually a mass of muscles and sadism.

“Impossible! No pueden estar aqui!”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si, mi amigo. It seems that we _can_ indeed be here, for here we are. How astute of you.”

“Who are these guys?” Stan asked. And then it clicked for him. “Oh yeah . . . I recognize baldy. So I’m guessing this is El Condor and . . . the other one. What was it you said? Señor Cray-Cray?”

“Mi eStanford!” Esmerelsa hissed in bloodless fear. “Get away from them! Quick!”

“Si, the lady is right,” the man with hard, sharp features declared, the barest trace of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth as he approached. “You should be trying to escape us now.”

Unimpressed—or at least feigning it, none could say for certain—the old man crossed his fancy, gold-colored arms across his chest. “The lady also thinks she’s not a priority for me. If she can be wrong about _that_, she be wrong about _you_.”

Pursing his thin lips in thought, the man they called El Condor considered that. Then, shrugging, he drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. A silencer was attached to its muzzle. “Si, that is logical. But she is _not_ wrong about us. We are assassins, and we are very good at what we do. If you were smart, you would be using this time to escape us.”

Stan, however, did not move; he stood between the assassins and Esmerelsa, using his own body to shield her. Yet, from behind his broad shoulders, she begged, “Please, El Condor! He is _nothing_ to this business! He _knows_ nothing, and could _do_ nothing if he did. You do not have to eshoot him.”

“Si, I do _not_ have to shoot him,” the man with hard, sharp features agreed almost affably.

“He does not have to die. You can let him go.”

“Si, I _can_ let him go . . . _if_ you come quietly and cooperate entirely.”

Swallowing her fear, Esmerelsa nodded once.

But as she walked to them, Stan held out an arm to block her progress. Throatily, he whispered, “Esmerelsa . . . Don’t go with them. Not again.”

She turned and, though they both still wore their masks, looked up into his eyes. “I must do this. They will take me either way, but this way . . . this way, you will estill live.”

“I let you jetski away from me once before. I can’t do it again.”

“You must. If you die . . . who will esee to los chicos?” she asked with a brave little smile.

“I . . .” That thought rocked him to the core. If he were to fight, and lost—if he died here . . . But if he were _not_ to fight, and lived—if he let her walk out of his life again . . . The indecision paralyzed him: do and die, or don’t and not really live. Risk the kids being left alone in the world, or risk abandoning Esmerelsa to her death.

What should he do?! _What should he do_?!

_What could he do_?!

Esmerelsa placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Adios, mi amor.”

Despite his every instinct screaming not to now turn his back to the barrel of a gun or the blade of a knife, Stan spun around completely to face her. He cupped her chin in one hand desperately. “If I let you go, they’ll kill you.”

“Tal vez si, y tal vez no . . . But they will not kill _you_,” she stated emphatically. “Comprendes? Now . . . kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.”

“Ehehehehehe!”

The man with hard, sharp features nodded as he stepped closer to the couple (impatient in his desire to be finished). “Si. It will indeed be very much _like_ the last time, because it will _be_ the last time.”

Stan’s face tightened. In that moment, he came to his decision. If he had to choose between fighting and dying for Esmerelsa, or not fighting and living for the kids, he would choose _the third option_: fighting AND living for Esmerelsa and the kids! After all, he was a professional con man; he _never_ played by the rules others tried to give him. And, even now, he had more than a few tricks up his sleeve. _Literally_.

So he wrapped his arms around to the small of her back, pulled her close to him, and kissed her. Long and hard, as if he were bidding her adieu forever. By all appearances, he even got a little handsy, since his hands certainly appeared occupied back there.

“Ehehehehehe . . .” the soft, round man protested.

“Si, mi amigo is correct; this has gone on quite long enough.”

But Stan would not break his embrace with Esmerelsa. Rather, he pulled her tighter to him and kissed her more desperately (and in an even more handsy fashion) than before.

“Ehehehehehe!” the soft, round man whined.

Making a sound of disgust, the man with hard, sharp features let the impatience and frustration of the past week get the better of him: he stepped forward and prodded the old man with the barrel of his gun. Getting close like that was a tactical mistake that he should have known better than to make—that normally (when sufficiently rested and composed) he would have known better than to ever make. But how could either of these old, heartbroken tangoistas pose a credible threat to a trained assassin like him or his partner? He snapped, “Si, that is quite enough! Turn around now! It is time to go!”

Esmerelsa pulled away and made to step around Stan, but he swiftly blocked her by turning and spreading his arms wide. “Y’know, you really should’ve checked me for weapons first. I’ve got one here in my left hand,” he stated theatrically, before quickly adding, “Oh, but not to worry! I’ll drop it before you take her away.” He made a distracting gesture with his left hand and tossed something away.

In spite of themselves, both assassins zeroed in on the object—focused right on it as it fell to the ground—and thus were staring straight into the heart of the sudden explosion of light and smoke that followed when it hit! Reflexively the man with hard, sharp features brought back his gun hand to shield his eyes—turned his weapon away from Esmerelsa and Stan!

Fast as a snake and twice as vicious, Stan lunged forward! He seized his opponent’s wrist, holding the gun away, with his left hand! With his right, he thrust a second smoke bomb (which he had worked out of his sleeve and into his hand behind Esmerelsa’s back at the same time as the first one) straight into his opponent’s face! It burst with a flash that stung like grabbing a fistful of red hot pins, but Stan didn’t care! Hearing his opponent scream out in pain (“NO! MIS OJOS!”) gave him a fresh shot of adrenaline! He pressed his wounded hand back into that hard, sharp face! Tried to press the smoke and the sparkles and the still smoldering powder—all of it!—into his opponent’s eyes!

“Mi eStanford, look out!” Esmerelsa shrieked as the soft, round man snarled, “Ehehehehehe!”

The old man looked up in time to see the second assassin round his colleague and lunge forward with a blade in each hand! Lurching clumsily away, he evaded the left-handed slash but felt the right one graze across his forearm! Then the assassin was recovering his balance, preparing for a second lunge! Grinning manically because he had two hands with which to attack, and the old man was still flat-footed and reeling backwards—off balance and helpless to defend himself!

Then, suddenly, there was a flash of silky silver! Esmerelsa’s wrap! She had cast it forward and over the soft, round man! Though he tried to hack it away, his arms became entangled in it for one crucial second—the second Stan needed to recover his balance, seize her by the hand, and (shouting “RUNRUNRUN!” even as she shouted, “Wait! Uno momento!”) dash past them! Back towards the hotel entrance! Back towards witnesses and help and doors they could bar! Back towards safety!

Enraged, the man with hard, sharp features raised his weapon and fired after them! But his eyes must have still been dazzled from the smoke bombs, because he missed! _He_—El Condor, the deadliest assassin in all of South America (except for Caracas in Venezuela)—_missed_! Not once, not twice, but all three shots before the couple dove behind a pillar!

Awash with adrenaline, Stan swerved around a parked car then made to dash for the doors—straight down the garage—but Esmerelsa latched onto the car to pull him to a stop! To yank her hand away from him! In shock, he demanded, “What’re you—”

With her free hand, she produced her gun. From . . . _somewhere_ on her person (though it was still just as much of a mystery as it had been the previous night where and how, in that gorgeous gown, she had managed to conceal it).

Stan blinked. “Oh. But we should—”

The soft, round man rounded the pillar like a knife-wielding jack-in-the-box. “EHEHEHEHEHE!” Esmerelsa turned and fired once, the discharge of her non-silenced weapon echoing like a thunderbolt in the garage! Though she missed, the shot halted the assassin’s advance—forced him to drop down behind the cover of a vehicle.

“—GO! WE SHOULD STILL GO! NOW!” Stan shouted, grabbing her hand again to drag her closer toward the door!

Then the man with hard, sharp features emerged around the pillar with his weapon raised! But, unlike his partner, he used the pillar for cover as he took aim through streaming eyes! He fired once! Missed. Fired again! Missed again. Cursed the weakness of his eyes—cursed the man who had assaulted them with flash and smoke, and even now bent double with La Contable as he fled behind parked cars! Knew—DAMN _HIS_ EYES—to take shelter even as he fled! Fired a third shot! Missed yet again.

The woman in silver turned and squeezed off shots of her own! Bullets whizzed through the air (some silenced, some not), ricocheting off of concrete or embedding in vehicles, as both pairs ducked and wove behind whatever cover could be had in the garage!

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si! Mi amigo is right! We could have done this _reasonably_! We could have done this _peaceably_! We could have done this _like civilized people_! WE COULD HAVE DONE THIS WITHOUT ANYONE NEEDING TO DIE, SEÑORA LA CONTABLE! BUT YOU! HAVE FORCED US! TO DO THIS! LIKE THUGS!”

“LOS ÚNICOS QUE MORIRÁN SON USTEDES!” Esmerelsa screeched back!

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si! My little friend thinks not! My little friend wants you to say hello to his little friend!”

All of his survival instincts screaming to find the new threat, Stan looked back over his shoulder. Nothing—at least, nothing new; there was still the gun-toting assassin. And then, he felt something bounce against his foot. A gray cube, rolled at them under a car—a gray cube with a timer attached to it, counting down . . . five seconds . . . four seconds . . . three—“BOMB!” And he kicked it back, exactly as if it were an explosive that could kill him if he didn’t get as far away from himself as possible! Then, in the same fluid motion, he hooked an arm around Esmerelsa’s waist and dove forward!

KABOOM!

A bloom of flame rocked the car up off of the ground, and the concussive force of the explosion blasted both pairs away a step! Every window in a ten-foot radius shattered, every alarm in a thirty-foot radius blared into life! Their four sets of eardrums reverberated like the timpani in Richard Strauss’s “Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Opus 30, Introduction)”! The car crashed back to the ground, and so did they! Stumbling to regain their balance, stumbling to press their flight or attack or counterattack all at once! Black smoke billowed up like the acrid wrath of Henry Ford’s ghost against all hybrids everywhere!

“Hot Belgian—” And then, Stan realized that there were no children around for whom he was obligated to set a good example; seamlessly, his expletive transitioned into a string of actual swearwords that would have left both his wards in a state of traumatized shell-shock for a solid week. All while still holding onto Esmerelsa while he lurched ever onwards to the doors.

So close . . . So close . . . There! He lunged for the knob with his free hand!

whushawhusha-THUNK!

A four-bladed star embedded in the material mere inches from the knob. The old man in gold stared at it in utter disbelief. “A ninja sta?! _A ****ing_ _ninja star_?!”

“Mi eStanford, la puerta!” the woman who was no longer middle-aged screamed. “_La puerta_!”

A bullet hole drilled into the door beside the shuriken, and Stan startled backwards! There was the man with hard, sharp features—El Condor—standing beside the column of flame and smoke that was the bombed car, aiming his silenced weapon directly at Stan’s face! A clear shot within easy range from a man who made his living dispensing death! A kill shot! A shot that would not, _could not_ miss! Stan saw his life flash before his eyes! The assassin smiled thinly, pulled the trigger, and—

click

Nothing. He pulled the trigger again.

click

“Ehehehehehe.”

“SI! I KNOW IT IS OUT OF—”

BANG!

The man with hard, sharp features whipped backwards as a bullet cut into his right shoulder! Shocked, he looked up in time to see Esmerelsa level her firearm at him a second time. Her eyes, behind the mask, were as cold and hard as the moon—the kind of eyes he saw when he looked in the mirror; the eyes of someone prepared to kill without a second though . . . Eyes he could respect, but had never expected to see on her . . . Had not the cards said he would kill her? That her death was certain? Yet . . . it now seemed that she would take his—

click

“No . . .”

clickclickclick

“Nonononono!” Esmerelsa cried aloud.

“Heh . . . Si,” the man with hard, sharp features retorted. And then, though the pain was excruciating thanks to the bullet in his right shoulder, he drew the second magazine from his pocket. Released the first, letting it drop from the gun to the ground. Placed the second in place and drove it—

Snapping back to reality, Stan snatched up the embedded shuriken and hurled it back at them—a gesture which was never likely to hurt them, but did at least distract them for another, crucial second! While both assassins flinched out of its way, Stan seized the knob, jerked the door open, and heaved Esmerelsa through it! A second later, he lunged through and slammed it shut behind him!

“No balas! No balas! They will kill—”

“THEN DROP IT AND RUN!” the old man shouted so forcefully that she instantly complied. Then, together, they ran for their lives down the plush hallway—back into the Hotel Jeru, Salem and towards the tango extravaganza!

****

Shrieks had been exchanged for a solid fifteen seconds (and Dipper’s had easily been the best—practice truly does make perfect) before they started to taper off. Then, the kids just stopped. After a moment of suspenseful silence, Mabel inquired, “Do you think . . . Maybe Slendy just hasn’t reached that part of the house yet?”

“S-still circling around, you mean?” Norman surmised.

“Yeah. Maybe that?”

“Maybe . . .” Dipper conceded.

{You kids didn’t maybe leave the lights on in that room, did you?}

“I . . . dunno. Did we?”

“Did we what?”

“L-leave the lights on in that room? With the w-window?”

Dipper blinked. Then he face-palmed.

Mabel groaned, “_Dipstick_!”

“I know!”

“_You just ruined your own trap_!”

“I know!”

“What are we supposed to do now? Go turn off the lights ourselves?”

“I know! I mean, I don’t know! I was busy thinking of other things, okay?!”

{Kids, calm down. Fighting won’t help—}

“Well, we gotta think of something!” Mabel insisted. “It’s not like the rest of the lights are just gonna go off all by themselves!”

And then, suddenly, the rest of the lights went off all by themselves.

“Well, that’s conveni—”

“Shhh! Wait! Do you hear that?!” Norman hissed.

Both twins cocked an ear in the dark. “Hear . . . what?” the sister asked while her brother observed, “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly!” Norman whimpered, already fumbling for the flashlight in his pocket. But he dropped it with a thud, and it rolled over the floor. “Crap! Crap! Crap! Where is it?!”

“What’s the matter? I don’t—”

Then it clicked for Mabel. “Dipper, we can’t hear the fans! We can’t hear the _generator_!”

“. . . Crap! Get the flashlight! Crap! Crap! Crap!”

Already on his knees, Norman babbled, “I’m looking I’m looking!”

Dipper fell to his knees beside him, sweeping the floor frantically with his hands! “Hurry!”

“I _am_ hurrying!”

{Don’t yell, Normy! Look!}

“G-guys . . .” Mabel intoned, looking up into the darkness.

“Where did it go?! WHERE DID IT GO?!”

“IF I KNEW THAT, I WOULDN’T BE LOOKING, DIPSTICK!” Norman burst out.

“Guys!”

“What?!” Dipper snapped

“Can you . . . hear something?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Up above us?”

Both boys (and one ghost) paused to listen. They couldn’t help it. And they heard it, too.

{Is . . . Is something moving around up—}

“Is something on the roof?” Dipper murmured. “Or is that—”

“Upstairs?” Mabel whimpered. “In the Shack already?”

“But it _couldn’t_ be . . . C-could it? How could it even . . . ?”

“Crap . . .” Norman mouthed on every breath. “Crap . . . Crap . . .” His hands arced over the floor, searching and searching, for they needed that flashlight. His throat was tight with the effort to not panic and his eyes scrunched nearly shut in terror. If he didn’t find it . . . If they stayed blind in the dark . . .

Was that a step? Was it shifting weight across old floorboards? Was it their imagination?

“But it’s supposed to come through the window! Here on the ground floor!” Dipper almost whined in protest. “This is . . . This is _cheating_!”

“What do we do?” Mabel whispered. “We can’t see! Do you have the exorcism memor—”

Norman’s fingers brushed against something metallic . . . and cold . . . and cylindrical! “Got it!” he cried out triumphantly, seizing it and switching it on. The bright white beam seared across the room, illuminating it in a slanted way from the floor up. He turned it towards the front door and the stairway to the top floor, casting shadows beyond the doorway as long and sharp and dark as the Grim Reaper’s own scythe.

But there was nothing to be seen in the doorway.

And whatever they had been hearing up above stopped.

“Did it . . . Or maybe . . . Just this old Shack settling, maybe?” Mabel hazarded.

Dipper cleared his throat and tried to regain his calm. “Could just be messing with our hea—”

**LONELINESS**

Norman spun back towards the side door, the flashlight cutting painfully across the living room! A pale hand reaching, a blank face staring! A gaunt body in a black suit, rippling through the doorway! Moving bonelessly, like a snake, like a tentacle, like a shadow or a fog or a nightmare given shape! Finally come for them! Norman fell back with a scream!

{Normy!}

**TAKE AW**—

And then the Slender Man stopped. Just stopped advancing. Almost as though . . . as though an invisible wall blocked any further advance.

“Ha . . . Hahaha!” Dipper suddenly laughed aloud, pointing triumphantly at the carpet upon which the Slender Man stood. “It worked! The blood seal really worked! Haha! Just like I knew it would!”

**CAN’T MOVE**

“W-way to go, Bro-Bro!” Mabel cheered, pulling her brother into a hug. “You caught Slendy!”

**AGAIN**

“That’s right! We got you again!” Dipper crowed. “Go team Mystery Kids! Nothing spiritual can escape our triple-bonded blood seal! You! Are! _Trapped_!”

**STUCK**

“Heh . . . Y-yeah! You are completely t-trapped now!” Norman realized even as he scrambled back towards his friends—scrambled back as far away as he could—from the Slender Man. Then, turning the full beam of the flashlight onto their supernatural prisoner, he began, “S-so now . . . Maybe we can t-talk about . . . about why you’ve been t-taking kids? Maybe we can help you . . . move on?”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

“Ah!” Norman gasped while his grandmother clapped her hands over her transparent ears and both his friends staggered back a step! For deep within their minds, that shriek was as sharp and jagged as steel being ripped asunder!

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

“G-guess Slendy d-doesn’t wanna talk!” Mabel shouted above the noise that never touched their ears.

“But we can _help_!” Norman cried out. “_I_ can help! I’m a _Medium_—the Multi-Bear said that’s what my job is! To help bridge the physical and spiritual worlds! Please! You m-must be in so much pain! If you’ll let me, I can help! Are you a ghost?! A demon?! Whatever you are, I can—”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

{What’s that boy waiting for?!} Elaine screamed in her agony. {He needs to exorcise it already!}

“But I can help! Like I helped with Aggie! There’s gotta be more—”

Mabel laid a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder. “Doesn’t want our help! Nothing we can do!”

Norman looked back to her, distraught. “But . . . We have options now! We don’t have to just destroy the Slender Man! Maybe we can save it, too! Along with everyone else! There’s gotta be something more we can do!”

“We can save ourselves and the kids Slendy took! That’s what we can do! But that’s . . . that’s it! Whether a ghost or a demon or whatever the heck-heck he is . . . Slendy’s beyond our help! He’s more than we can handle, Norm-Norm! We could barely trap him!”

{Arrrgh! It’s _too_ _late_ for the Slender Man, Normy dear!}

“But . . . D-Dipper?”

The behatted boy looked from his sister to his friend, then to the contorting entity trapped upon the blood-sealed doormat. It or he or whatever the Slender Man really was—possibly even an extradimensional horror for which such conceptions were too limited—was still shrieking in their brains. Directly into them. Like a chainsaw. And still struggling to escape so it could take them, too. With a sigh, the behatted boy turned back to his open journal. “Sorry, man, but . . . lives are at stake. Including ours. Can you, um, shine the light on this page for me? Please?”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

“Norm-Norm?”

{Normy, dear, make it stop! Please! _It_ _hurts_!}

“Norman, please?”

Hanging his head, the Medium whispered, “Sorry . . . I d-don’t know how to help you . . .” Then, he directed the beam towards the volume in his friend’s hands.

Clearing his throat, Dipper raised one hand high. Then he began to incant, “Mondo de bani-te. Opus me purgife mondo ce. Retro vade, jerkface—”

SLAM!

Somehow, someway the door behind the Slender Man shut so hard one of the posts cracked! Startled, Dipper ceased the incantation and looked up, but it was to be further dumbstruck when the door suddenly gaped back open! A piercing white light—a light that eclipsed the flashlight’s, yet chilled deeper than interstellar space—came rushing out its maw! A light which did not feed life, but drained it! A light which, slowly, was devouring the doormat upon which the Slender Man stood—burning it away to ash!

“D-Dipper?!” Mabel shrieked.

“It . . . It shouldn’t be able to do that!” the behatted boy spluttered. “It’s impossible! Nothing spiritual should be able to escape a normal blood seal! And ours is _triple-bonded_!”

{Well, it is!} Elaine shouted over the Slender Man’s mental shrieks. {Normy! It’s time to get out of there!}

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

The edges of the doormat were nearly gone! In seconds, the light would reach the seal itself!

“_HOW_ IS IT DOING THAT?!” Dipper demanded of the universe.

{NORMY!}

Jolted from his horrified fixation, the Medium latched on to both Dipper and Mabel and began to drag them towards the escape they had left open—the front door. “We gotta go, guys! Now!” But that escape was not open; it was still barred and barricaded! “D-damn it!”

Mabel shrilled, “I’m on it!” and shouldered the stack of obstacles out of the way!

Dipper hurled himself at the locks and bolts, his hands a blur! A second later, the door opened! “Quick! The golf cart!”

Mabel pointed. “It’s around the side!”

“You guys get it!” Norman spurred them on. “I’ll use my light to keep him p-pinned down!”

The twins were both six steps away before they spun back around. “What?!” Dipper demanded, while Mabel exclaimed, “Are you crazy?!”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

But Norman had already taken up a defensive position covering the front door. “Go! This might b-buy us some time!”

Dipper stared at him for an instant, then he snapped, “Don’t do anything I would do.”

“Heh. You g-got—”

“Do not be a hero.”

“Way too s-scared for—”

“No sacrifices.”

“_WILL YOU JUST GO_?!” Norman burst out. “GET US THAT FREAKIN’ GOLF CART ALREADY!”

As the twins ran to round the Shack, Elaine remained at her grandson’s side. {This is a really stupid, really dangerous idea.}

“Y-yeah, I know.”

{And, even if he is really cute, there are saner ways to impress your crush. Just saying.}

“W-what?!”

{Either way, when this is all over, you are so grounded, young man.}

“Ha! Totally. N-not leaving my room for a—”

Suddenly, there was red! That cold light spilling from the living room door was suffused with a bright, red glow! And a sizzling, stringent smell, like a red hot razor! Iron and heat—blood burning away!

“The seal!” Norman realized in a heartbeat. “It’s gotten to the seal! It’s trying to . . . to burn through it, or something! With the light!”

**STUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCKSTUCK**

The clash of energies (supernatural against magical, or spiritual against spiritual—for all energy is ultimately the same) was clearly going one way, though; the red was dimming! Soon it would be gone! Soon the blood seal would be broken, and the Slender Man would walk free!

“C-crap . . . Crap . . . Crap . . .” Norman mouthed with each panicked, panting breath.

Elaine clenched her spectral fists so hard that her knuckles alone almost manifested white on the physical plane. It would not happen this way, she decided; it would not be allowed—_she_ would not allow it. _Never_. If the Slender Man got through that vital, bloody obstacle, then it would find another one waiting for it—one which had been lacking in vital signs for years, but could still make things plenty bloody if anything tried to touch her grandson.

And then, the red was gone! The cold, white light—the light that was like no other luminescence in that world—radiated in undiluted intensity! Cruel triumph for a moment, it seemed. Then, the door to the living room slammed shut as suddenly as it had slammed open, and the light was gone! There was only darkness once more . . . Darkness, but not silence . . .

**LONELINESS**

“Crap . . . Oh, _crap_ . . .”

The beam of the flashlight—warm, comforting, and natural—remained on the front door, though it trembled. Because this was it. The Slender Man was really coming, and this light was the only thing holding it back from Di—

A spectral hand laid itself upon Norman’s. His grandmother’s. She leaned in close to him. Soothingly, she said, {I need some energy from you, Normy. And then I need you to leave here. Please?}

“O-oka—”

Elaine stepped into the Medium—stepped into her grandson.

With a screech of tires, the golf cart rounded the corner of the Shack so fast it tilted! Dipper had to bodily wrestle the wheel to keep the whole vehicle from wobbling out of control!

“Whoa!” Mabel gasped. “Do you see Norm?! He’s amazing! He’s glowing!”

“Jeez, Mabel, can you get a crush on him later?! Trying to drive now!”

And then they surged and braked hard across the front gravel, stopping just beyond the Medium as he (glowing with spectral energy) rose an inch off the ground!

“_What the heck_?!”

“_See_?! _I told you_!” Mabel shouted. “_Glowing_!”

“But . . . His grandma?!”

Falling back to the ground and falling to his knees, Norman ceased to glow. But the glow did not dissipate, nor did it even fade; it stepped out of his body in the form of a plump woman with gray curls like steel wool—independent, determined, absolutely terrifying in the way that only a matriarch can be when stepping up to fight to the whatever-is-after-death for her offspring. Elaine Stritch Babcock. Norman’s grandmother. Manifesting brighter, stronger, and fiercer than any of the other ghosts had or could ever have manifested. She looked back at her grandson, making sure he was getting up again. “Normy, go with your friends now,” she said. “And, whatever happens next, don’t forget that I love you. And I am so, _so_ proud of you.”

“Oh yeah,” Mabel affirmed. “His grandma.”

Norman looked up at her, tears in his eyes. “G-Grandma—”

**TAKE AWAY**

“Now _get_, young man!” the ghost woman shouted, turning back towards the open front door—back towards the impossibly tall, impossibly thin figure emerging from it.

“NORMAN!” Dipper yelled. “C’MON!”

**FOREVER**

Elaine launched herself like a doting cannonball of pure, spectral fury! She shrieked, “I’m gonna give you the whooping your own grandma should’ve given you YEARS AGO!”

**COMING**—

POW!

Her fist landed square on the Slender Man’s blank face! Like whiplash, his or its spine arched and arched _hard_, until that featureless head touched the ground behind it! Though, as in the cemetery—just as unsettlingly grotesque as before—the Slender Man’s feet remained planted on the floorboards!

“Ugh, yuck!” Elain couldn’t help but revolt.

Meanwhile, Norman scrambled over the loose stone, hurling himself in the back of the golf cart!

“Seatbelt!” Mabel said automatically, even as her brother slammed his foot on the gas! “Sorry, we would’ve been here sooner!” she continued, even as gravel sprayed behind their tires. “But _someone_ forgot about the emergency brake!”

“Everyone forgets that sometimes!” Dipper countered (just as automatically) even as they sped away through the fog.

“Think Waddles we be okay in his little, piggy, panic room?! Should we’ve brought him with?!”

“Slendy wants _us_, not preprocessed bacon! It doesn’t even have a mouth! Waddles’ll be _fine_!”

But Norman had no response for their nervous banter. He was looking behind them—looking to where his ghostly grandmother had reached through the front door to grab the knob and pull it shut. She was holding it shut, too. With both hands, and her feet braced against the posts. Using all her manifestational power to hold the door against the Slender Man . . . hold the door to secure their escape to safety . . . It was getting hard to see her, though; it was dark, the fog was thick between them, and there were so many tears in Norman’s eyes . . .


	23. Chapter 23

“Were those _gunshots_?! Did something _explode_?!” the night manager demanded as the couple in gold and silver barreled into the lobby. But in vain, for the masked couple did not stop to answer; they barreled onward, down the hall to the ballroom. “Sir?! Ma’am?! WHAT’S GOING ON?!”

Much to their surprise, though, the hall was now full of competitors and their accompanists—a musical mob apparently in the midst of last-minute warm-ups before the final main event. Wendy and her brother (with Soos on accordion, and the rest of the Corduroy coterie as “moral support” for them) were even sixth from the front of the mob. The way was all but blocked!

“What do we do?! Where do we go?!” Esmerelsa cried.

“Um—”

Behind them, back in the lobby, the night manager could be heard demanding, “Sirs! Can either of you tell me what just happened in the parking gar—IS THAT A GUN?! YOU CAN’T—”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Si! My partner is right! We can, for we are . . . FBI! Now, which way did they go?! Hurry!”

Stan tightened his handhold on Esmerelsa, then advanced fast and hard. “We plow through! Excuse me . . . Beg your pardon . . .”

“Crap, he’s back! Soos, cover your face! And let me hide behind you!”

“Dude, don’t say my name or he might hear!”

“Terribly sorry . . . One side . . . Make way, there . . .”

“EHEHEHEHEHE!”

“SI! STOP THAT WOMAN AND MAN IN MASKS!” the man with hard, sharp features crowed.

Curious, the hallway actually fell silent, all eyes on him as he raised a badge with the letters FB—

“I AM DANCING HEART-THROB PATRICK SWAYZE!” Stan suddenly proclaimed.

All eyes turned to the man in the sparkling, golden suit. The hallway remained just as curious and silent, except for one voice that said, “I _knew_ it!”

“AND THESE MEN ARE PAPARAZZI POSING AS FBI AGENTS SO THEY CAN HARASS ME ON A DATE WITH LATIN SENSATION . . . er IRIS CHACON FOR TABLOID PICTURES!” Stan continued to proclaim.

“I _knew_ it! Also!”

“Ehehehehehe.”

“Si. That is a load of—”

“SEE THE CAMERA THE ONE IN NON-FBI CLOTHES CARRIES? THAT IS THE PROOF!”

Someone wavered, “Well . . . I dunno . . .”

Another someone conceded, “But he _does_ have a camera . . .”

With an exasperated, “Ehehehehehe . . .” the soft, round man drew another shuriken from inside his fanny pack and flung it at the old man!

In a burst of adrenaline-powered, caffeine-boosted, survival instinct, Esmerelsa reached to her side and grabbed the bass register of a Bianco-Canonico brand, piano-type accordion! With a protective “FweeeEEEEEE!”, she unfurled it to the limit before her own body and Stan’s!

whushawhusha-fwishkhkh!

The four-bladed projectile ripped into the bellows of the instrument—releasing a sad, little death-sputter from it (“fweee-peh-peh-pehhhhh . . .”) as it deflated—but could not fully pierce through! Soos (the unfortunate owner) let loose a howl of anguish such as no man or animal has ever uttered in the history of the planet (for a ruined accordion, at least). “_NNNOOOOOOOOO, DU-U-U-UDE_!”

The mob of tangoistas looked on in horror as the once-beautiful instrument collapsed . . . dead. Then their horrified eyes turned to the soft, round man—he who had committed this flagrant atrocity—and his partner. It was then that Esmerelsa decided to add, “And these two paparazzi, _they really hate the tango_!”

“Haters of the tango . . .” Manly Dan growled, his cracking knuckles like the rumble of Thor’s impending vengeance.

“Haters . . .” the mob muttered. Then again and again: “Haters . . . _Haters_ . . .” With increasing vehemence and volume, becoming a wrathful chant. “_Haters_! _Haters_! _Haters_!”

“PROTECT US FROM THE HATERS! FOR I—YOUR DANCING IDOL, PATRICK SWAYZE—COMMAND IT!” Stan proclaimed before turning and, still holding tight to Esmerelsa, plowing forward.

“_Haters_! _Haters_! _Haters_!” the mob chanted as it closed ranks on the two assassins.

His right shoulder screamed from the bullet buried deep inside it, his right side dripped moist and sticky with his own blood, his eyes seared from the smoke bomb, his head pounded from a week of stress and a night of unplanned disasters. And now . . . now these . . . these degenerate _dancers_ impeded his work. In disgust, the man with hard, sharp features lost his temper. He snarled, “Si! I _hate_ it! Tango music is the tool of the devil! Your accordions are the . . . are the _jukebox_ of the devil! Or the toolbox of the devil! It is the _WORST_! Form! Of music! _EVER_! NOW GET OUT OF OUR WAY!”

“Ehehehehehe?”

“Si! You go! I will catch up to you!”

“Ehehehehehe!” Drawing his twin daggers the soft, round man launched himself into the crowd! Not directly through it, however, but laterally—as if he were a razor-tipped bouncy ball—rebounding off the walls and people and every single obstacle that tried to hold him back! Kicking, elbowing, and even slashing to get ahead! In his wake, people groaned in concussed pain. Some stared in shock at the slashes he had cut into them as he cut his way forward! His motion was slippery, erratic, unpredictable; his momentum ceaseless—seemingly unstoppable! A haywire buzzsaw!

But those traits which allowed him to get through the hallway unhindered were the same traits which prevented his partner from being able to follow after him; the man with hard, sharp features simply could not keep up. Nor was waving his one weapon around conducive to make people step aside. Certainly not as conducive as the flashing of two twin daggers. Perhaps the mob was too angry to care that he was armed. Perhaps they did not believe that his was a real weapon, as they no longer believed that his FBI badge was real; it didn’t help that he couldn’t convince them it was a real firearm without actually shooting one of them (even firing into the air three times didn’t suffice . . . curse these effective, high-quality, El Cartel silencers that actually _silenced_ a gunshot, instead of just making it slightly quieter like American ones did!) Either way, the man with hard, sharp features found himself pushed back clear to the lobby by the advancing, chanting, fancily-clad mob.

Worst of all, so many of them were toting accordions . . . Demonic, demonic accordions . . .

****

And then the way was clear for the soft, round man! Ahead of him, he could see his prey reach the end of the hallway and push through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only”! Like a hound with the scent of blood in his nose, he sprinted after them!

Through the door was a significantly drabber, significantly more utilitarian hallway—a place for spare chairs and tables, for storing the bulk supplies any hotel needed—with the woman in silver and the man in gold already halfway down its length! He continued to give chase, grinning because he was gaining ground! Grinning because he would get to kill the man in gold! Maybe they needed the woman in silver alive, but the man in gold? No, the man in gold was his to do with as he pleased! And he would make a _masterpiece_ of his suffering, a symphony of his screams!

“Ehehehehehe!”

****

“So, uh, I think it is now safe to say that your plan has officially gone kablooey in our faces—”

“Only _Plan A_!” Dipper insisted.

“—ergo we should definitely retreat to Norman’s,” Mabel finished.

“That was _always_ Plan B! Always part of my _overall_ plan!” he said pointedly. “Which—look!—is what we’re now doing! My plan is still good! The fact that I didn’t account for something which should have been _fricative_ _impossible_ does not mean it’s a bad plan!”

“You like how I threw in that ‘ergo’? That was for you. To make you feel better for your plan officially tanking like a . . . like _Seaworld_.”

Swerving off of the Mystery Shack’s dirt road and onto the town’s paved one, Dipper groused, “Yes, very thoughtful. Much appreciated. And totally _helpful_ at this juncture, I might add. Hey, Norman, how’s it looking back there? Is it or he or whatever coming after us?”

But the taller boy did not answer.

“Norman? Norm? Man, talk to me!”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he choked out, “N-no . . . We are _not_ being . . . f-followed . . . She must . . . She m-must still be h-holding him off . . . Alone . . .”

“Uh . . .” Awkwardly Dipper glanced at his sister.

She shrugged, then tried, “That was _real_ brave of her. When all this over, we’ll have to find some way to thank her. How do you thank a ghost, though?”

“Nice smells, maybe? A scented candle?” Dipper suggested with forced cheeriness. “Can ghosts even smell, Norman?”

“Um . . . Y-yeah, I think so . . .” Wiping at his eyes, the boy with vertical hair added, “Not sure, but . . . M-maybe she’d like that idea, even if she c-can’t . . .”

“What fragrance would she like, do you think?” Mabel asked conversationally. “Something fruity or something naturey or something like a baked good?”

“Is this r-really the best time to, like, d-discuss my Grandma’s smell preferences?”

“Why? You got anything else better to do while we putter along at _fourteen freakin’ miles per hour_?!” Mabel asked while staring pointedly at her brother.

Dipper retorted, “She’s giving us all she’s got! Gladys isn’t a fecund Ferrari!”

“. . . You named the golf cart ‘_Gladys’_?” Norman asked in utter disbelief.

“Shut up! It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful lady! Machine! Lady-machine-type-thing!”

Confused, Mabel stated, “But . . . Soos said its name is ‘Golbert the Destroyer’. You know that?”

“When he drives, the golf cart can be Golbert; when I drive, the golf cart is Gladys.”

Mabel snorted. “So it switches from a boy to a girl depending on who’s driving?”

In exasperation, Dipper countered, “You can’t spell ‘sexy transportation’ without ‘sexy trans’! Now will you please stop trying to impose your draconian, 19th century gender norms on my liberated, 21st century vehicle? She can do whatever she wants whenever she wants! And right now, she wants to be focused on watching the road ahead for our turn because it’s _really_ hard to see it coming in this fog!”

She pointed across his face. “It’s right there.”

“Gah!” And Dipper wrestled the wheel into another swerve so tight that Norman nearly fell out. “Little more warning next time, Mabel!”

“Sorry, I just assumed you knew where you’re going, since you insisted on driving.”

“I _do_ know where we’re going! It’s just hard to see in this dam-pening fog! And I’m under a lot of stress right now—stress you’re _NOT_ helping diminish!”

Deciding it was best not to respond, Mabel resumed with Norman, “So . . . Fruity, naturey, or baked goods?”

“Uh . . . I . . . I th-think she’d like . . . maybe . . . Do you guys hear that?”

“Hear what?” Dipper asked.

“I can’t hear much over this _glorified_ _lawnmower’s_ engine,” his sister snarked.

“Gladys has an electric battery. Gladys is green, and also very quiet. Now what would we hear if my sister would _shut up_ for a change?”

“Sort of a . . . Like, a tapping noise? No, wait . . . more like . . .” Then Norman’s blood ran cold. “_Footsteps_.”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“W-what?!” Mabel shrilled, all thought of calming Norman gone. “I hear them, too!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“Th-they . . . Are they getting _louder_?! Are they coming _closer_?! How is that possible?!”

Peering into the fog behind them, Norman saw a skeletally thin silhouette following after them! It walked—it never ran—and yet, somehow, it was gaining on them! “G-Grandma . . .” he whimpered. What had happened to her?! _What had the Slender Man done to her_?!

**LONELINESS**

She is gone. Forever. As the others are gone.

“N-no . . .”

**TAKE AWAY**

As your friends shall soon be gone. As you shall soon be gone. Forever.

“NO!”

**FOREVER**

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“D-Dipper, why is the Slender Man _gaining on us_?!” Mabel shrilled in fear.

Desperately, her brother stomped on the gas! Once! Twice! Thrice! But it did nothing!

Latching onto his shoulder, Mabel cried, “Dipper, why are we _slowing down_?!”

“I . . . don’t . . . know! The power is just . . . just dropping! I dunno why! It was fully charged earlier! IT WAS _FULLY CHARGED_ EARLIER!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

The sound of the engine was a long, whining decrescendo.

“R-run . . .” Norman croaked. “We have to r-run . . .”

“Dipper, do something!”

**COMING FOR YOU**

Norman grabbed Mabel’s shoulder now. “He c-can’t. We have to . . . have to run.”

Wide-eyed, she met his gaze. Then, she nodded. “D-Dipper . . . d’you think we can make it?”

His knuckles were white on the wheel as they gradually decelerated. “We’re gonna . . . have to try . . . We’re basically coasting at this point . . . Damn it, Gladys!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“Okay. Okay, on three, we bail out,” Dipper decided. “And then we keep running straight ahead. Got it?”

“Yeah!” Mabel said, hoisting her backpack arsenal onto her shoulder.

“Y-yeah,” Norman agreed, clutching the flashlight in his hands.

“Okay . . .” Dipper took a deep breath. “Okay. One . . . T-two . . . THREE!”

Mabel jumped right. Dipper seized his shovel and leaf blower and bailed left. Norman swung out after him, tripped, fell forward, and scraped one knee. “Gah! Ow!” But an instant later, Dipper was pulling him up and yanking him along behind. “I’m f-fine! I’m coming!”

“This way!” Mabel called to them, waving them down the street. “Hurry! It’s gaining!”

**CAN’T RUN**

“Watch us, No-Eyes!” Dipper shouted without breaking stride!

****

“_Haters_! _Haters_! _Haters_!”

A cacophony of harmonic bellows and melodic wheezes assaulted his ears with the chanting! Notes, chords, whole measures and more! A diabolically tortuous assault of sound, bearing down on him like the many angry faces and upraised fists! His head hurt too much to think! His whole body hurt too much to think! And their stealth had been ruined anyway, what with gunshots and explosions, so . . .

So what was the point of damage control anymore?

“Si . . . There is no point to it anymore . . .”

Was not the best strategy at this point a speedy extraction, no matter the cost?

“Si . . . It is best that we leave here with La Contable as quickly as possible . . .”

Awkwardly, he unscrewed the silencer with his blood-slick, bullet-wounded right arm. Then, still in his left hand, he aimed his firearm at the most obvious threat—at the biggest, burliest, and manliest of the chanters—and squeezed off a single shot.

BANG!

Though the ritzy upholstery of the lobby dampened the echo, the discharge was still deafening. The bearded man—the big, burly, and manly threat—stumbled back. People all around screamed. A girl and three boys cried out, “_Dad_!” and their accordionist (he whose accordion had been shurikened) exclaimed, “Dude! You just _shot_ Manly Dan!”

****

“Ehehehehehe!”

The laughs wouldn’t stop! They just wouldn’t stop! So neither could the couple!

“Don’t stop . . . Esmerelsa! Señor Cray-Cray . . . right behind us . . . Keep runnin’! Keep runnin’!”

“Estoy . . . tratando! No puedo . . . _respirar_!”

An old service elevator waited at the end of the staff hallway—a relic of the hotel’s early years, so old its door was like a collapsible gate made of old wrought iron—and Stan threw it open the instant they reached it! A second later, he and Esmerelsa were through it, and he slammed it shut behind them! Pounded the button for the eighth floor! Three times! Four times! Five times!

“C’mon! C’mon!”

“Ehehehehehe!”

“C’MON!”

The assassin was almost there! He had almost caught up!

And then—FINALLY!—the elevator lurched upwards! They were going to get away! To escape! “Eat it, _sucker_!” Stan crowed down at the soft, round man. Gloating, because their attacker had reached the elevator just in time to watch them disappear up the shaft!

Slowly and gratingly up the shaft . . .

With, the assassin noticed, a set of stairs right beside it . . . No doubt for emergencies . . . Like when one’s prey is escaping . . .

“Ehehehehehe!”

****

Mabel suddenly darted towards a side alley, then turned and shouted back, “This way! Quick! It’s right behind you!”

“But that way isn’t—”

“DIPSTICK, I SAID ‘THIS WAY! QUICK!’ AND NOT ‘ARGUE WITH ME WHILE WE FLEE!’ OKAY?!”

Tugging Norman a little faster, Dipper darted towards the same side alley. “This way! Quick!”

And Norman followed, holding fast to his friend’s hand and running fast as he could hobble!

But once in the alley, they found Mabel planted just beyond its mouth. Her brother gasped, “But why are we—”

**GOT YOU**

“DUCK!” she barked, and then, “GRAPPLING HOOK!”

Pchooo!

The projectile flew high and true, blasting hard into the Slender Man’s chest! Though its or his feet remained planted, he or it whiplashed backwards, and in that moment of vulnerability, Mabel shouted, “FLASHLIGHT! LEAF BLOWER! NOW!”

“Wha—Oh! _Brilliant_!” And Dipper swung around his windy weapon and activated it! With a whine, it blew the fog back out of the alley! And, incredibly, the Slender Man seemed to slide away, too!

“DRIVE IT BACK, GHOST PANTS!” Mabel shouted!

“Uh! Um! Here!” And Norman swung his light around and clicked it on!

**CHEATING**

The Slender Man, without actually stepping—as though it or he were transposed from one location to another—retreated back beyond the alley’s mouth! They had actually managed to drive it back a step!

But there was no time for victory! With her grappling hook already retracted, Mabel spurred on her brother and friend! “Gogogo! Keep going! We gotta keep going!” They dashed out the other side of the alley and veered to the left again—further into town, always in the direction of Norman’s house!

No streetlights lit their way this time, though. The power outage still hung like a black shroud upon the town. Nor was there a single soul about to see them pound past, to witness their desperate flight from danger. Whatever influence of isolation and despair that seemed to emanate from the Slender Man—whatever influence had cut them off from all human life and help last night—was being exerted against them again. But stronger now. Doubled. Tripled, maybe. Would anyone have heard their footsteps through the unearthly, thick muffling of the fog? Would anyone have heard them call for help? Scream in terror? Would they have come to their aid if they had? Impossible to know.

But the three kids did not stop to ask these questions; they only ran as hard as they could! Unfortunately, one cannot run indefinitely; their muscles began to tire, their breathing became ragged, and their pace slowed!

“Is . . . still . . . after us?” Norman gasped.

Dipper chanced a look back. “Don’t . . . see it . . .”

“What? But . . . where?” Mabel panted out.

They all paused (huffing and puffing) to look back, but the Slender Man’s impossibly tall, impossibly thin silhouette was nowhere to be seen.

“The f-fog . . . hiding?” Norman suggested.

“Maybe . . . So hard . . . to see . . .”

Mabel held up a hand for quiet, then listened. “D’you . . . hear it?”

Norman shook his head. “No . . . No steps . . .”

“B-but. . .” Dipper gulped down a breath and tried to think rationally. “Wouldn’t just . . . give up! So where—ahead of us! This is a trap!” He spun back the way they had been running, the leaf blower cocked and ready!

But ahead of them, there was just the same silent, shifting opaqueness. No sight nor sound of the Slender Man.

“Huh . . . I really thought—”

**GOT YOU**

“AH!”

The kids all leapt in different directions as a bone white hand reached down from above—from _on top_ of the business beside them (Soup Store, “We don’t sell clothes. ONLY SOUP.”)! Did the arm stretch beyond proportion to reach down, or had it always been that long? Impossible to say, but what could be plainly said was that the Slender Man was clambering down off of the roof and coming straight for them again!

“AGAIN!” Mabel barked, raising her weapon! “PUSH SLENDY BACK!”

Pchooo!

Again the projectile flew high and true, blasting hard into the Slender Man’s chest! But this time, one of his or its hands caught the hook as it or he whiplashed backwards—caught the hook, and held on like grim death! Mabel could not retract it! In fact, she was being dragged forward by it!

“G-GUYS!”

Dipper activated the leaf blower at full throttle, bearing down on the supernatural threat with an animalistic roar, “_GET AWAY FROM MY SISTER_!”

But even as the Slender Man slipped steplessly away from the gusts of manmade wind and light, he or it would not let go of the hook! Mabel even had to let go of her weapon, or risk being jerked clean off her feet!

“F-fall back!” she shrilled, pointing down the street. “We need to fall back! Find another alley!”

Dipper nodded intently “Norm, go! I got you cover—whoa!”

The other cadaverous hand whipped around from his flank, and the behatted boy could barely swing the leaf blower up in time to shield himself from its grasp! The tool was seized instead of him, then ripped from his hands! “Gah!” A clatter and a clanging followed, and both it and the grappling hook were cast aside—lost in the fog and too far away to be retrieved!

**PLAY FAIR**

On his heels, Dipper stumbled back into his sister! Both off balance! Both momentarily unarmed! Both vulnerable to the skeletal hands now coming back for them! Then, with a roar, Norman lunged in front of them and swung his flashlight like a club! Once! Twice! Knocking both hands astray! “_DON’T YOU TOUCH THEM_! _YOU’RE NOT GETTING THEM, TOO_!”

**STILL CHEATING**

“Woo!” Mabel cheered. “That’s why we call it a ‘tag light’!”

“QUIPS LATER!” he continued to roar as he turned the beam back on the Slender Man, forcing it or him to slip back a pace. “RUN NOW!”

“R-right!” Dipper agreed, grabbing his sister and his friend by the hand. “This way!”

****

A moment of silence followed. No chanting. No damned accordions, either (gracias a dios!). Finally, these people were staring at him—at El Condor, the deadliest assassin in all of South America (except for Caracas in Venezuela)—with the truest respect there is in all the world: with absolute terror. As they should. As everyone should. As everyone always should. And he had enough clarity to think again. Finally. So he nodded. “Si, I shot him. And unless I am allowed to pass through, I will shoot—”

“AARGH!” the bearded man straightened back up with gritted teeth. He advanced threateningly again on the man with hard, sharp features. “YES, I BEEN SHOT. BUT TO QUOTE THEODORE ROOSEVELT, OUR _MANLIEST_ PRESIDENT, ‘IT TAKES MORE THAN THAT TO KILL A BULL MOOSE’. RRRAA_AAARRRGGH_!”

Manly Dan flexed his manly cans, and the bullet popped out onto the floor. Everyone gaped in sheer disbelief, including the assassin. Especially him; in his experience people did _not_ survive getting shot close-range in the chest, and yet . . . In that one, crucial second, Manly Dan stepped forward and wrapped one of his massive mitts around the weapon, turned the muzzle away from all bystanders . . . and then squeezed. When he let go, it looked like someone had clenched a glob of metallic playdough. Everyone gaped in sheer disbelief again, including the assassin. Especially him; in his experience, people were _not_ capable of crushing steel with their bare hands, and yet . . .

Could it be that this big, burly, manly threat actually was (to use an American Expression) as badass as he appeared? Could it be possible that, of the two of them, it was El Condor who actually was (to use another American Expression) the jackass here?

****

By the fourth floor, the sound of the elevator was growing distant, but the soft, round man could still hear it moving above—grating slowly up the shaft . . .

By the sixth floor, the sound had stopped; he knew they had reached their destination. Probably on the eighth floor . . . He had them now!

By the eighth floor, he was winded . . . Winded, but still moving fast and hard—driven forward by the prospect of a fresh victim within reach! Proof for anyone to see that the soft, round man merely _looked_ soft! Proof that he was actually a round mass of muscle and murder, like a bad medicine ball! After all, what is poison but too much bad medicine?

Bursting through the stairwell door, he scanned the hallway as he barreled ahead, and spotted them instantly! How could he not, in their flashy gold and silver attire, lighting up even this plush length of suite entrances like the sun and the moon lit up even a beautiful sky?

“_Mi eStanford_!” the woman screamed in warning.

“Ehehehehehe!”

“Got it!” the man yelled as their room finally opened to his cardkey and they slipped inside it.

They slammed the door behind them, but that wouldn’t stop the assassin for long! What’s more, they were trapped inside! How could they hope to escape him here, eight floors up? They were his! Even if the door was bolted, chained, and swung outward—even if he could not kick it open—he had other ways of gaining entry . . . Louder, more colorful ways . . . Ways that were much more _fun_ . . .

The soft, round man drew another charge of C-4 from his Nikon D4, and another detonator from his fanny pack. Just as he had done in the garage, he expertly combined the two with a few movements. Then, deftly, he molded it just to the side of the knob, set the detonator’s timer for ten seconds, and ran to take cover in the alcove of another doorway. He could barely contain his excitement.

“Ehe . . . he . . . he . . . he . . . _HE_!”

KABOOM!

Splintering from the force, the door was blown open! A woman screamed, a man shouted, and the assassin squealed with delight as he dashed to his new ingress with twin daggers drawn! He leapt through the door and—like a heat-seeking, psychopathic missile that also likes to make disturbing art—lunged at the man in gold! At his prey! _At his surprised, staggering, off-balance, helpless prey_!

****

“KIDS?”

The bearded man’s four offspring drew their suddenly-no-so-ceremonial hatchets. As if on cue, all the many accordionists in the room began to play dramatically. Infernal incidental music to the topsy-turvy hell into which the man with hard, sharp features appeared to have plunged.

Manly Dan then drew his own larger hatchet. “I LIKED THIS SUIT. THEN YOU PUT A HOLE IN IT. I LIKED SOOS’ ACCORDION PLAYIN’. THEN YOU PUT A HOLE IN IT. I LIKED PATRICK SWAYZE’S PERFORMANCE. THEN YOU PUT A HOLE IN IT. METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING.”

Eerie and foreboding, parts of “Montserrat” could be heard creeping through the air.

“Um, actually, Dad, I think that was more me and So—”

“NOT NOW, WENDY-BIRD. DADDY’S MAKIN’ THREATS NOW. MAKIN’ _THREATS_. AS I WAS SAYIN’, I LIKED ALL OF THOSE, THEN YOU RUINED ‘EM. SO I DON’T THINK I LIKE _YOU_,” Manly Dan concluded. “WHICH MEANS . . . YOU BETTER _RUN_.”

As if to match the mob’s mounting tension, someone played “Mi Confesion”.

He had no weapon, and he faced a man who could flex off a bullet wound and crush steel with his bare hands. And was brandishing a hatchet—him and his big, burly, manly clan (except for the girl, who was probably more mobile thanks to her lithe, non-burly form . . . and, therefore, more dangerous). And was backed by people cruel enough to play tango music while they prepared to lynch him. What else could he do but retreat? “S-si . . .”

“YOU GET ‘TIL THE COUNT OF TEN. UNDERSTAND?”

How had it come to this? How was it even possible?

Why had the cards not forewarned him? Had their magic been twisted—was that why they had revealed nothing for a week, and then had led him to this? Or was this fate . . . _his_ fate?

They should _never_ have taken this job for El Cartel . . .

Strains of “Libertango” cut through the air with murderous intent. Perhaps this was the overture to a divine retribution which he had never believed he would suffer . . . not until this moment, at least. Perhaps this was all the cruel jest of some vengeful deity, orchestrated as the downbeat to an eternal punishment for the dozens of times he had murdered in cold blood. Certainly, the scene was . . . was just wrong enough to make an atheist like him wonder if maybe—just maybe—god wasn’t dead, and wasn’t happy with him, either.

The man with hard, sharp features had to get out of there—forget La Contable, and even forget his dearest amigo—or he might just die a horrible death right then and there. He gulped. “S-si.”

“GOOD. ONE . . . TWO . . . _TEN_!”

****

Her side was starting to cramp, but Mabel did not slow her pace. Not even to look back. She just clutched her side with one hand, her brother with the other, and kept running forward. “How close . . . behind us . . . is Slendy?!” she gasped.

“The light . . . seems to be . . . keeping him back!” Norman wheezed, even as he swept the beam over his back again.

“Don’t slow down!” Dipper yelled hoarsely at them. Tugging them both forward—always tugging them both forward!

“We’re . . . _trying_!”

“We’re almost there! A little further . . . and then we turn! We’re gonna . . . make it, you two! We’re gonna—”

“GAH!” Suddenly, Mabel ground to a halt, and the other two whipped around her!

“Mabel?! What the Van Helsing?!”

She pointed ahead! “LOOK!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

**CAUGHT YOU**

Dipper blanched as, materializing through the curtain of fog, the Slender Man approached them from the front! “N-no . . . It _can’t_ be . . .”

“_What_?!” Norman was so surprised that he actually looked back the way they had come, only to see the obvious: there was no Slender Man _there_! “H-how’d it . . . How’d he get _ahead_ of us?!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

The behatted boy drew the shovel from the back of his vest. “Doesn’t matter—”

“Light!” Mabel shrilled.

“—because we’re not—”

“_Light_!”

Norman swung the flashlight forward. “Right! Right! Sorry!”

“—getting caught here!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

**GAME OVER**

Fear washed over the three kids like a tsunami! Norman faltered, and so did the beam of light! Mabel began to hyperventilate, near sobbing! But Dipper brandished the shovel, screaming, “YOU THINK WE’RE SCARED OF YOU?! WE WILL _MESS_ YOU UP!”

“_L-LIGHT_!” Mabel shrieked, even seizing the Medium’s hand to steady the tag light and point it square at the advancing horror!

The Slender Man seemed to slide back a step. No further back, but at least not moving forward.

**MORE CHEATING**

Mabel reached forward to grab her brother’s shoulder, too, and the fear seemed to recede a bit. Or at least that steadied her nerves enough that she could choke out, “We can’t . . . fight it like this . . . We need to _run_—”

Eyes locked on it, Dipper snarled, “_But it’s blocking our way_!”

“We run back—strategic retreat, right? We go sideways . . . We find a way to slip past . . .”

“A better maneuver,” Dipper conceded, now also starting to think more steadily. “Okay, let’s—”

“_Guys_!” Norman cried out as the Slender Man jerkily stepped forward against the light.

Step . . .

“Are you friction _kidding me_ right now?!”

Step . . . Step . . .

**STOP CHEATING**

“Strategic retreat! STRATEGIC RETREAT!” Mabel cried out, pulling both the boys back the way they had come. “_RUN_!”

****

Stan was dazed. He was off balance. He was reeling backwards. And he knew that the assassin with the knives was coming straight for him, but he couldn’t move right to defend himself. It was like he was deep underwater; all his muscles felt thick and slow . . . As if they were distantly stiff and sore—something he couldn’t feel now, but would feel tomorrow and the next day and a whole week after that. A bruise all over his body. From the force of that explosion just now? And his ears . . . They were ringing so hard his thoughts were curled up in a fetal position . . .

He staggered against the couch. He saw the assassin with the knives—and that ugly, ugly shirt—lunging at him. He tried to take a fighting stance, but he had to brace himself against the couch to keep from falling over; his hand waved slothfully before him in the most drunken guard he’d ever seen in all his decades of prize-fight viewing. And the one thought that could make itself heard over the ringing in his ears was, “I’m about to be killed by a man wearing the ugliest shirt in the entire world.”

Suddenly, from the side, a lamp came flying! It coldcocked the soft, round man in the face with enough force to knock him off his lunge—his twin daggers did _not_ find their mark in Stan! But how—Esmerelsa! Like a Latina lioness wielding whatever implements she could lay her hands upon, she leapt forward to defend him! First had been the lamp, now she seized the bucket of ice in which they had left a bottle of sparkling Rich People Water to chill! Pausing only long enough to pull the bottle from the ice (like a knight drawing a sword), she then hurled the bucket with all her might!

But the assassin was ready this time; he blocked, and the bucket went spiraling across the room! Partially-melted ice was scattered all across the floor! “Ehehehehehe!”

Shrieking “Muere, escoria humana!” at the top of her lungs, Esmerelsa charged forward and swung the perfectly chilled bottle at the soft, round man’s head! But he dodged! So she swung it again! He dodged a second time! She swung a third time! But he parried her perrier with his blades, flicking it out of her accountant’s hands! Then, leering triumphantly, he moved in for—

The bottle clanked against the floor, bottom first, and erupted like a geyser of social inequality (with the cork rocketing into the assassin’s right pinky—stinging it like a wasp—and the sparkling water spraying in all directions)! The assassin yelped (“EheheheheHEEEEE!”) and his right knife went flying! The woman in silver sputtered as she staggered back from all the non-alcoholic fizz!

Then she set her foot down on a piece of ice, and slipped sideways into Stan. Both toppled over the side of the couch, landing in a heap on the other side. Still dazed, Stan lolled there like a turtle while Esmerelsa struggled to her feet. She grabbed his hand and strove desperately to drag him up with her. “Up! _Get_ _up_, mi eStanford!” So he followed as best he could, but—even though his movements were less labored than before, even though his ears rang less with each passing second—he was still reeling off balance. And there was ice all over the floor to pose a further slipping hazard.

Unfortunately, the soft, round man was relentlessly following, too. Though he now had only one knife left, he pursued them around the couch. So they retreated to the other side of the suite’s bed—using its king-size as a barrier. But he grinned his predatorial grin at them. The barrier that halted him also trapped them; the only escape that lay behind them was over a balcony railing—an escape to an eight-story plummet. No escape at all! _He had them trapped_!

Seeing this, Stan made his first real move since the door had been blown open: he snatched up a pillow from the bed and flung it at the assassin’s face! But the knife-wielding maniac diced it like a blender! Feathers flew through the air like a blinding blizzard of eider down—so thick that Stan and Esmerelsa had to shield their eyes!

And that gave the soft, round man a delicious idea . . . Clicking his heels together, he released the hidden blade in his left shoe. It slid out as silent and deadly as a cobra. Then, suddenly, he feinted sideways, as if to move around the bed!

Stan flung a second pillow, releasing a second burst of off-white feathers, and shoved Esmerelsa back behind the protection of his body! But the rounding attack he was anticipating did not come! Instead, the assassin bounded onto the bed and through the feather blizzard like a short polar bear—bounded at Stan with a blade-tipped jumping kick!

The old man barely dodged (or stumbled in his surprise, and fell) out of the way in time! But that was just the first of a flurry of assaults! As the soft, round man landed on the floor and spun to face him (a dagger in his left hand and a blade extending from his left foot), both knew he couldn’t dodge for much longer! Still, the old man balled his fists; he was prepared to go down fighting!

“Ehehehehe—”

“_NO_!”

“—he?!”

From behind, Esmerelsa jumped onto the assassin to hold him back! Wrapped her arms and legs around his spherical carriage and held on tight! Between the surprise of this maneuver and how much she actually cumbered his movements, it worked; he could neither thrust nor kick at Stan—not without _first_ dealing with her!

He flailed at her! He spun and shook! But she would not let go! Never! Not as long as there was a breath in her body! So he spun harder, torqueing himself around so hard it was like riding a bull! Grabbing at her with his right hand to try and peel her off! Whipping about menacingly with his left hand to wound her into letting go! But he could never reach far enough to do any real damage, and she was digging painfully into his face with her nails and his abdomen with her heels and—

POW!

A well-timed jab snaked in and out past the danger of the whipping dagger, striking hard against the assassin’s mouth! This time, he was the one to go reeling back! But not helplessly; a wild left kick kept Stan from pressing his counter attack! And even disadvantaged like this, the assassin was more than capable of dispensing death! So long as he—

His foot came down on a slick piece of ice. With Esmerelsa still on his back, he fell backwards—hard—into the sliding glass door of the balcony. So hard, it shattered—CRASH! And they both tumbled backwards through a sparkling rain of glass onto the balcony! Against the wrought iron railing! _Over it_!

“_NO_!” Stan shouted.

****

He ran; the man with hard, sharp features ran like so many of his victims had run: for his life.

Behind him, voices roaring and accordions bellowing and feet pounding, the mob of tangoistas charged after him. “_HATERS_! _HATERS_! _HATERS_!” they chanted.

Dodging tables, couches, chairs, and ottomans, he ran; the man with hard, sharp features ran like so many of his victims had run: in a near blind panic. Then he was at the main entrance, but too fast for the automatic door to open. He collided with it. He looked back and saw the crowd bearing down upon him. He pounded his usable left fist against the door in desperation. Then it opened, and he bolted forward to safety—bolted in the direction of his car (which he could drive away from this awful place, _far, far away from it_, and _never_ come back!) across the street!

Like the icy breath of death in his ears, he heard someone play “Tango de la Muerta”.

He looked back as he ran, wondering if he had gained enough ground to be able to enter his car and start the ignition before the mob caught up to him—wondering if it really would grant him safety. Where were his keys? His breast pocket? He reached in, but what he pulled out was the Deck of Prov—

“Whoa! Look out!”

A horn blared, deeper and louder than a car’s! A truck’s! What the—

Headlights flashed his already dazzled eyes! He raised a hand to shield them. What the—

THBAM!

****

In a whirl of sparkling silver and gaudy tourist attire, the woman who was no longer middle-aged and the soft, round man toppled over the intricate black railing! But by some unseeing survival instinct, both reached out and latched onto it at the last second! They hung over the edge, legs dangling above an eight-story drop, by their fingertips!

“Ah! _Ayudame_!”

“I’m coming, Esmerelsa!” Stan shouted, glass cracking under his feet as he rushed to her aid.

“Estoy . . . _deslizando_!”

“Hold on!” And then, leaning over the railing, Stan grabbed her by the wrists. He grabbed her, and he held on with all of his might—no longer even conscious of the blood dripping down one hand nor the blistering burns on the palm of the other. No pain even registered while she was in danger. Such is the natural miracle of adrenaline. “I got you! Everything’s gonna be alright now! _I got you_! C’mon, let’s get you—_whoa_!”

“Ehehehehehe!”

A vice-like grip seized onto Stan’s forearm! The assassin had reached over and latched onto him! But why?! Why grab Stan instead of pulling himself—HE WAS TRYING TO PITCH STAN FORWARD FIRST, BEFORE HE AND ESMERELSA COULD GET TO SAFETY AND TEAM UP ON HIM! HE HAD BRACED HIMSELF ENOUGH AGAINST THE BOTTOM OF THE BALCONY TO GET PURCHASE, AND NOW HE WAS FIRST TRYING TO SEND BOTH STAN AND ESMERELSA HEADLONG TO THEIR DEATHS!

“Mi eStanford! Voy a caerme!”

Shrill with victory, grinning madly, the assassin giggled! “EHEHEHEHEHE!”

“_NOT_ . . . _GONNA_ . . . _HAPPEN_!”

Leaning back to offset the soft, round man’s pull—still clinging to Esmerelsa with all his might—Stan swung one foot up and through the railings! Right in front of the soft, round man’s no-longer-grinning face!

“_HASTA LA VISTA, CRAY-CRAY_!”

THBAM!

The heel of Stan’s foot connected—_hard_—with the soft, round man’s nose! So hard, it broke with a sickening crunch! Involuntarily, his grips on Stan and the railing both instantly released!

And then . . . gravity took the assassin.

****

He flew; the man they called El Condor flew like his namesake did fly: wheeling through the air with arms outstretched. Slowly, almost gracefully, it seemed . . . From his hand, streaming behind him like the glittering tail of a comet, the tarot cards of the Deck of Providence went pinwheeling. The beams of the truck reflected off the vibrant colors on their fronts and the gilded design on their backs (reminiscent of the Masonic Eye, seventy-eight of them now winking as they tumbled with their owner).

He hit the ground hard—THUD!—then rolled like a ragdoll. When he came to a stop, his eyes stared unseeingly into the night sky and his right hand stretched out away from him. As though he were reaching for something he would now never touch.

The mob looked on in absolute shock. This man with hard, sharp features must have covered over thirty feet after the truck collided with him. “Whoa . . .” someone intoned. “D’you think he’s—”

“eeeeeEEEEE_HEHEHE_—”

THUD!

“What the—”

Like a sack of meat dropped from on high (which all humans truly are, when one thinks about it), the soft, round man struck the pavement. The slamming force of his fall was so great that the pavement cracked around his corpse like the radius of webbing around a splatted spider. Now his eyes also starred unseeingly into the night sky, while his left hand stretched out away from him. As though he were reaching for something he would now never touch as well.

“Isn’t . . . Wasn’t that his partner, earlier? The guy who cut up a bunch of people?”

By an astronomical coincidence, the two assassins’ outstretched fingertips were mere inches from each other; they had both fallen so that they looked like they were now reaching for each other. But perhaps the coincidence was more astrological than astronomical: of all seventy-eight cards that had gone pinwheeling through the air, only _one_ landed upon their bodies. In fact, it landed equally upon their outstretched hands. Facing upwards, like themselves, for all the world to see its unblinking face. The Death Card. For it was certain. It had _always_ been certain.

****

Movies make it look graceful when someone is pulled up over an edge, but the reality is usually quite an ungainly process; it involves a lot of quick, jerky movements, a lot of scrabbling and scrambling for stable footing, and a lot of mutual clinging. Gross sobbing, too (_lots_ of gross sobbing). Very little of it is cinematic. But the ungainliness of the process notwithstanding, Stan did manage to hoist Esmerelsa back up and over the balcony fairly quickly; it only took a few seconds. Then with shattered glass crackling underfoot, they walked back over to the security of the bed and sat a moment to just breathe.

“It’s okay . . . It’s okay . . .” he whispered again and again. “He’s gone now . . . It’s okay . . .”

The woman in silver did not respond. At least not with anything he could understand coherently. Mostly just more gross sobbing (though it communicated a lot in a very coherently incoherent way).

“Esme, listen to me,” the old man said after a moment. “We need to get out of here now. Yeah, Señor Cray-Cray is gone—and everything’s goin’ to be okay, don’t get me wrong—but his partner could come back at any moment. We don’t want to be here for that, right?” he reasoned gently. “We don’t want to be here for El Condor. And even if _he_ doesn’t, _the authorities_ are goin’ to be here really soon. _Police_, you understand? We _really_ don’t want to be here for that, right?”

Esmerelsa looked up at him and, even though she still wore the silvery moon mask (and he wore the golden sun mask), he could see the tears in her eyes. But also comprehension; she was listening.

“Okay, good. So here’s what we need to do: we need to grab all of our stuff and go—right now. Out of the room, back down to the garage, and into our car. Right now. Before the authorities get here. Got that?”

She nodded. “S-si . . . I understand. But this room, we leave . . . las huellas digitales . . . How do you esay?” she asked, wiggling her fingers in the air demonstrably.

“Er . . .”

“The . . . The marks when you tocas—_touch_, I want to esay—when you touch esomething?”

“Oh. Fingerprints,” Stan filled in automatically. And then, with dawning realization, he intoned, “Oh . . . Yeah. Fingerprints . . . That’s a problem . . .”

“And our hairs, too. On the pillows.”

“Also a problem . . .” he admitted. “Well, I do got an old stand-by for that. You grab our stuff, and I’ll handle that.”

“But—”

Already walking into the bathroom (where there were half-a-dozen bottles of rubbing alcohol which Esmerelsa had ordered via room service to prepare for the evening’s dancing), Stan cut her off, “Esme, we don’t really have time for questions. Just do it. Por favor.”

“. . . Si,” she relented. “Uno momento.”

“And don’t organize the glass or make the beds!” he added quickly.

She hesitated, then stepped away from the beds with a forced a laugh. “Claro que no! That . . . That would be _esilly_ right now! Even if it would . . . only take me . . . half a minute . . .”

It took Stan only a few seconds to splash the contents of one bottle around the bathroom, then a few more to splash the rest over the bed (paying special attention to the pillows) and the furniture, the glass on the balcony, both sides of the suite’s door, and across the carpet between all these points. After that, he tossed the empty bottles onto the pillows and drew a pack of matches from his work suit (not the golden one he then wore, but the clothes in which he had ridden to Salem).

“Why do you have those matches?” Esmerelsa asked, her arms full of the few items with which they had come to town. “You do not esmoke.”

“No, but I do occasionally have to set hotel rooms on fire, so I always carry them with me.”

“I am . . . esurprised to hear that.”

Striking a match, Stan shrugged. “I’m surprised you’re surprised, quite honestly. I mean, do I honestly look like the sort of a man who _hasn’t_ resorted to arson in the past to cover his tracks?” Then, tossing it onto the bed, he watched just long enough to ensure that it lit up like a witch hunter’s christmas tree and began spreading across the room (in a manner that was not unlike a fire gone wild—or a “wildfire”, as it is sometimes called by the younger generations). “Jeez! I can’t believe you bathe in this stuff . . . Well, the evidence is now burning and we had better get moving!”

Following him out the open door, she said, “I am . . . ready, mi eStanford.”

“Heh. You’re still thinking about going back in to organize the broken glass.”

“Only . . . a lot.”

Hurrying down the hall, they passed the elevator in favor of the stairs. They were three floors down before the fire alarm began to blare throughout the building, and out into the garage (swiftly scooping up Esmerelsa’s empty gun en route) before anyone else could appear in their path. In the garage itself, they jogged past the still blazing wreckage of the exploded vehicle, reaching Esmerelsa’s car without impediment. An instant later, they were inside it and rolling towards the exit.

“C’mon . . . C’mon . . .” Stan muttered under his breath. “Just a little further . . .”

Their way was clear; no barrier blocked the path, no authority figures had arrived yet to corral potential witnesses.

“_Gogogo_!” he urged her.

An instant later, she swerved onto the road and gunned the engine. Though oncoming emergency lights could be seen reflected in the rearview mirrors, they were receding into the distance; after another random turn down one of Salem’s many streets, they were gone. The couple had successfully slipped away. They had made good their escape from the assassins and the authorities.

Sinking back into his seat, the old man finally let himself untense. The ordeal was over . . .

Then, timidly, Esmerelsa broke the silence. “Where . . . Where am I driving, mi eStanford?”

“Doesn’t matter. Nowhere. Anywhere. Everywhere. Long as it’s not here . . . Maybe somewhere we can change out of these flashy clothes,” he added as a weary afterthought.

She nodded. “They are too easy to remember. I find us a place.”

****

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“When . . . do we turn?!”

“We gotta do it soon!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“But Slendy’s still . . . right behind us!”

“That’s _why_ . . . we gotta do it soon!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

“After that . . . big building! We bank right! Down the alley! Then again . . . back the right way . . . to Norman’s house!”

“We can use the light . . . to at least slow it down a sec!”

“Don’t talk! Just run! Almost there! Almost the—_WHAT THE HECK_?!”

Ahead, from the left, a piercing white light suddenly burst forth, dazzling but cold as arctic snow! A light such as would never shine from any sun, a light such as might shine from a black hole! Ravening and voracious, sucking in everything around it to callously consume! A light that shone as concentrated as a spotlight from one side of the street to the other, forcing them to a sudden stop! For they knew—_they just knew_ deep within themselves—that they could not cross it, nor even enter it!

Norman’s eyes jerked automatically to its source, and he felt a familiar strain as everything seemed to warp and compress. “_No_! How did we wind up _back here_?!”

It was the _same_ light that had engulfed their triple-bonded blood seal! The _same_ light that had insatiably blazed forth at the disappearance of every missing kid! The kind of rapacious light that could only pour out from the reality-bending maw of a Cursed Door—the light of _#13 on Main Street_!

“_No_! _No_ _no_ _no_! _Fecund_ _NO_!” Dipper cursed.

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

**GAME OVER**

In a fit of desperation, Mabel reached into her backpack, jerked out the first thing she touched, and hurled it at the Slender Man! “GLITTER BOMB, SUCKA!” But the skew and drag of reality crooked her aim—she missed her mark! With a flash of light, a whoosh of smoke, and a bang of sparkly colors, the glitter bomb exploded before his feet! But it might as well have been made of fog for all it impeded the advancing horror. Not even a speck of it lingered on his shoes. “_Crap_!”

**CAN’T HIDE ANYMORE**

Fighting the pull that seemed to tilt everything towards the Cursed Door, Dipper took a stance and brandished the shovel again. “Alright, you faceless bastard . . .”

“GLITTER BOMB!” Mabel shouted again, hurling another. This time, her throw was true! It struck against its knees, and for an instant, its advance was slowed—a pause of the inexorable as brief as was the burst of light and sparkly colors . . . but then it continued forward. _Inexorably_. Still not even marred by a single speck of glitter. “_CRAP_!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

Norman swung up the tag light, blasting the Slender Man full in the face with its intense beam! But he did not even slide back this time, only briefly pause a second before doggedly stepping forward! Was he stronger than the light now?! Was the warp in the world pulling him forward?! Either way, Norman’s best effort did nothing to hold him back! “Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!”

**CAN’T RUN ANYMORE**

“Keep Slendy pinned in place!” Mabel shouted. From her backpack, she now drew the canteen and tore off its lid! “HAVE A DRINK OF THIS HOLY WATER, _YOU SECOND-RATE MIYAZAKI RIP-OFF_!” Then, she swung it high in a wide arc! Crystal clear water sparkled through the tag light’s beam for a moment to splash against that too-black suit . . . but, like rain off a waterproof slicker, the holy water did no harm and fell away. Useless. Not even an annoyance. “_CRAP ON A STICK_!”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

Dipper’s grip tightened on his shovel. “I’m gonna _bury_ _you_ with this superior melee weapon . . . Possibly for the second time, assuming you’re any kind of undead . . .”

**CAN’T CHEAT ANYMORE**

“I’m . . . I’m out of ammo!” Mabel said desperately. “Unless you think the silver compact mirror might work?! Or I could try swinging with my backpack?!”

“Get ready to do that!” her brother answered through gritted teeth. “Can’t go _back_, so we gotta go _forward_! We’re gonna charge _right_, okay? Use the gravity well for a burst of speed, like NASA does!”

“Wha—you’re thinking about _NASA_ at a time like _this_?!”

“We’re gonna use his powers against him, get past him, and _run_! That’s the point!”

Norman’s knuckles were white on the tag light. He wasn’t a violent person, but he already knew he would swing as hard as he could to protect the twins . . . to protect Dipper especially . . .

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

Mabel gulped, then said in a rush, “If this is it, I’m sorry for being all snarky and sarcastic at you during our last moments just because your plans didn’t work out, Bro-Bro. Norm-Norm, I’m sorry again for being a shrew-butt to you for so long.”

“I’m sorry for being irritable. I’m so frustrated and scared that I can’t think clearly, and that distraction makes me angry,” Dipper replied in his own rush. “And, Norman, you’re awesome. That’s all there is to say, really; you rock. That, and sorry for getting you caught up in this.”

Norman’s throat was too dry to say anything more than “Heh! Ha!” in response, but he nodded. He hoped it expressed enough of what he felt.

“Ready? GO!”

They dodged right, and the compression of reality towards #13 did grant them a turn of speed! But as they tried to round the Slender Man and move forward, that speed lagged! As if space stretched, making them have to cover more ground! As if the concrete and even their feet skewed beneath them! Down seemed to warp to the left and the right and especially behind all at once! Up, too, dragging back! Dizzying and disorienting! And the Slender Man’s impossibly long, impossibly thin arm whipped down! Norman, in the lead, flailed the tag light with a yell—“HYAH!”—but the Slender Man caught it in its pale, skeletal hand! As the tag light was torn from his grasp to be cast aside—“_NO_!”—Norman stumbled into Mabel’s path (or his and her path distorted until they collided) and they both tumbled to the ground! The other pale, skeletal hand then came whipping around from the other direction to seize at them!

**CAN’T FIGHT ANYMORE **

“_WANNA BET_?!” Dipper shouted defiantly, swinging the shovel hard! With a clang, it knocked that hand aside! Then the first, too, when it came rounding back at speed! For a moment, Dipper stood over his sister and his best friend, the shovel a twirling blur of defense in his hands! He struck right, then hacked left! He fought against the heave and pitch of reality, though woozy and dazed! He combatted the horror that loomed overhead—_always overhead_—even as all else wobbled like crazy all around! They were almost able to clamber upright behind him!

But then, he timed a move wrong by just a fraction of a second (or his seconds distorted until time slowed for only him), and the Slender Man got a hold of the shovel! Ripped it out from his hands! Unbalanced him backwards into Mabel, breaking all contact between them and Norman!

**LOST THE GAME**

That’s right. You lost, and now you are lost. There is no hope and never was. Give in to despair

Cornered by the gaping maw of #13 and the cold, white light which beamed forth from it!

“. . . I’m sorry, guys,” Dipper intoned.

**NOW LONELINESS**

No trace of you will ever be found. You will disappear completely like all the others.

Helpless beneath the impossibly tall, impossibly thin figure looming over them!

Behind Norman, Mabel and Dipper latched desperately onto each other.

**TAKE AWAY**

Accept this fate. You were always powerless to overcome it from the beginning.

Inescapable, it reached downward with both hands!

Mabel and Dipper latched desperately onto Norman, and he onto them. Their only stability. Whatever was to happen next, they would be facing it together. They would not let go, no matter what. No horror beyond their imagination, no distortion beyond their comprehension, no curse from beyond their dimension would make them let go.

**FOREVER**

The white light grew blinding and glacial! Space and direction became a nauseating maelstrom! The Slender Man took hold of Norman! There was a great creak, as of a door more immense than could be conceived by humankind closing! And then—

SLAM!


	24. Chapter 24

SLAM!

Slowly . . . space seemed to right itself . . . to decompress, flatten out, unbend, unwarp, unskew. Up became only up again. Down became only down again . . . Left resettled where it was supposed to be relative to right and up and down . . . and vice versa . . . Distances stopped being longer or shorter than they were physically supposed to be—no more mind-straining stretch or distortion to them . . .

The Slender Man released the kids, but they did not dare to let go of each other.

That cold white light, which had blazed even through their tightly scrunched eyes, diminished until not even a dull gray pierced through. It became almost dark, by comparison. A chill lingered in the air around them, but it ceased to be the kind of cutting cold that numbed deep down into the bones.

**WELCOME**

“. . . W-_what_?” Mabel squeaked. And, finally, she first dared to open an eye. “Oh my gosh . . . Guys. Take a look at this . . .”

Reluctantly, still clinging to each other and to her, Dipper and Norman both opened their eyes. “What the _heck_?” Dipper gasped.

They cowered in the midst of a gray waste, encircled by slowly roiling fog. The ground was perfectly level and featureless beneath them. Like concrete. But overhead and all around was darkness and that churning barrier of shapeless fog. The air was heavy and sticky; it almost seemed to buzz, like before a summer storm, except that it felt . . . slower than that, somehow, and certainly much colder. What little light there was emanated from before them, and was wan and weak compared to the light which had blazed through the Cursed Door only moments before. Washed-out, it almost seemed as if the darkness and the fog were sucking away at this light.

**FRIENDS**

Only Norman could see it: that stretch beneath the blank paleness. Features pressing through it. Lips pulled back and pulled up. Like . . . a smile? A _happy_ smile?

Dipper gulped. “You guys heard that, too, right? Slendy seriously did just say—”

“Friends. Sounded like it to me,” Mabel replied in a hushed voice. “Which is . . . _really_ weird . . . given all the terrifying chasing . . .”

“. . . Friends? And . . . a _smile_ just now—but maybe more before now, too?” Norman wondered within himself, thinking back. “What if . . . What if we had it _all_ _wrong_ this whole time?”

“Yep,” Dipper agreed with his sister. Then, peering into the wan and weak light ahead of them, he stated, “But I think . . . I think we found all the kids, at least.”

“And then some,” Mabel added. “So . . . yay for us. Good job, Mystery Kids.”

“Now we just gotta figure out how to get us all out of this . . . out of _here_,” Dipper declared. “Wherever here is.”

That brought the Medium out of his musings, and now he murmured loud enough to be heard, “I’ve . . . I’ve s-seen this place before, I think . . . In my v-visions . . . And the kids . . .”

In the washed-out light—almost like a dome of light within the darkness of this gray waste—maybe a score of children (adolescents or younger) sat upon the cold, hard ground. Impossible to say exactly how many there were, because the fog swirled endlessly about them. But those who were visible sat in groups around indistinguishable, rectangular shapes. Unheeded shapes; no one paid them any attention, for all were crying—some whimpering, others sobbing, and still others wailing. It did not matter how loudly; they just sat there and cried. All of them. Faces buried into hands or arms, or cast back and upward to the sky (or whatever was above them) in despair. Eyes scrunched shut and tears dripping down cheeks.

“I’m so ugly . . . Scare everyone _away_ . . . No one will ever love me . . .”

“I’ll be alone forever . . . _Forever_ . . . _Alone_!”

“They hate me because I make them lose . . . But I suck at sports . . . and I’ll never be good! Never have friends!”

{Come on, Robert! Say something! Get _red_, even—it should be easy, since _you already_ _are_! Eh? Eh? Aw, _come_ _on_, Robert!}

“Daddy! Why won’t you come back?! Daddy . . . Daddy . . . I’m so _scared_ and _lonely_, Daddy!”

There was Pacifica, too. “I . . . I really _am_ the mean girl everybody hates . . . Shallow, petty . . . They’re, like, _right_ to hate me . . . _I hate me_, _too_ . . .”

And more and more and more. Dozens of voices whimpering or sobbing or wailing all at once. Blending ceaselessly together, until it was nigh impossible to tell one voice from another.

**JOIN NEW FRIENDS**

Mabel looked back in openmouthed astonishment at the tall, thin figure. “Say _what_?!”

“_Join_?” Norman repeated incredulously. “_Friends_?”

**PLAY**

“W-what? _Play_?” Dipper stammered. “Play _what_? Who with?”

“But . . . But all the t-terror?” Norman wondered aloud, bewildered. “The dread—the chase? The fog and the sc-screams? And now . . . we _play_ with _new_ _friends_. . .” he repeated slowly, thoughtfully.

Mabel held tighter to her brother, who held tighter to her with one hand and to his best friend with the other. “Do we . . . just go with this?” she whispered.

“Can’t hurt, can it?” he whispered back. “I mean, we’re already _here_ . . . wherever here is . . .”

They stepped forward together—stepped forward through the fog, further into the pale light—and the Slender Man stepped forward behind them. Once level with the first group of children, Mabel blinked uncomprehendingly down at the rectangular shape in their center. “Is that . . . _a_ _board_ _game_?”

“Is that . . . _Risk_?” Dipper murmured.

**HAVE FUN**

They startled, but the Slender Man was striding unhurriedly past them to walk among the others and their games. Here was Monopoly, and there was Clue, Scrabble, Apples to Apples, Settlers of Catan, and many more. At the center of one group was even a TV and a Wii with multiple controllers connected to it (and a stack of nearby video games), though neither was plugged into any visible power source; nonetheless, MarioKart’s opening sequence cycled across its screen.

“Games here . . . _Play_ . . . Play a _game_? What if _outside_, too?” Norman pondered, barely audibly. “Said ‘hide and seek’ and stuff about ‘cheating’ and even ‘_game_ _over_’ before we were brought here . . . But the things he said most—‘loneliness’ and ‘take you away forever’—what about _them_? No sense . . .”

Dipper commented, “At least there are some sweet game options . . . But—”

“Yeah, I see it, too,” Mabel observed.

Norman came out of his thoughts. “S-see what?”

Pointing with her free hand, she answered. “Nobody’s actually _playing_.”

Sure enough, no one was. The board games were all set up, but untouched; whether dice, character pieces, resource tokens or fake money, cards, tiles, or whatever, nothing at all was in play . . . The children all just sat on the cold, hard ground. Just sat and cried.

“I wish I could just _die_ . . . Everyone would be happier if I’d _never_ been born!”

“No one likes me . . . Why don’t they like me? What’s _wrong_ with me?”

{Damn it, can’t you _hear_ what I’m saying?! I’m insulting _your_ _people_! Y-your—forgive me for this—your wagon-burning, booze-guzzling people! Doesn’t that make you want _to_ _yell_ at me?! Because it _should_! Yell at me, Robert!}

“Don’t care anymore . . . Deserve to be alone forever . . .”

The deposed Grand Goth was among them. “If I had only been less craven—taken the piercings and the tattoos . . . They would have never turned on me . . . It is my own fault I have no friends! Now, not even _Sam_ . . .”

Norman went rigid, looking around hopefully. “Detoby?” But this gray waste with its strangely ambient light (there was no discernible source for it; it seemed to simply emanate from the air around the circles of children) like dying fluorescent lamps, coupled with the incessant movement of the fog, hurt his eyes and made it hard to look at anything for long. He just could not see that well—not even to perceive how many children were physically present, let alone an incorporeal ghost like Detoby. And all the crying . . . the jumble of voices . . . It might have just been his guilty imagination; he just didn’t know.

“But . . . I don’t understand . . .” Dipper faltered. “It brought us all here . . . just to play games?”

Norman finally voiced his thoughts aloud, “W-what if . . . it was p-playing a game _outside_, too? Think about this: it _did_ keep saying, like, stuff related to games, right? H-hide and seek . . . and tag?”

“What about all the loneliness and taking us away forever?”

“Y-yeah, that’s the part I, uh, d-don’t quite get, either,” Norman admitted.

Mabel bit her lip. Something about that didn’t seem quite right—it was just off, but she didn’t know why . . .

“Heh! Imagine if _that_’s all there is to this mystery,” Dipper said sardonically. “The Slender Man just wanted to have a game night, and it started by playing terror tag with each of its party guests.”

“In d-different cities?” Norman asked.

“I dunno. Maybe it has to move a lot for its day job? But when you’re the new eldritch horror in the neighborhood, what better way to meet people than a game night with your abductees?”

“Huh . . .” Mabel looked over at the Slender Man. She watched as it paused at each group, as if watching their game. Its head never seemed to turn, and its face was always as blank and expressionless as a mask (to her and her brother at least, if not to their Medium friend), yet to her he now seemed . . . confused? A moment ago, after they had arrived, he seemed . . . almost happy. But now, he looked . . . concerned, maybe? Sad, even? Finally, she ventured, “Uh . . . guys, is it just me, or does the Slender Man look . . . way less scary here?”

Norman and Dipper questioningly turned their gazes back to her.

“Well, look at him. He seems . . . _smaller_ in here. Doesn’t he? Not as tall. And . . . _sad_, too?”

Both boys took another look at the horror—or, rather, at the now less-than-horrifying horror—in the tattered, black suit. It was standing over one group of children and their game. But not looming over them impossibly high. And, somehow, it looked . . . lost? At a loss? Both?

Dipper pursed his lips. “Yeah . . . I can . . . _kinda_ see what you mean. Like, if I didn’t know it was a terrifying monster . . . I could almost kinda feel . . . _bad_ for it.”

“But . . . But then why did he f-feel and look so scary before?” Norman asked aloud. “Why all that ‘take you away forever’ and ‘loneliness’ stuff?”

“Mmm . . .” Mabel bit her lip again. “Something about that . . . It’s _off_ somehow . . .”

“Something about wha—”

**STILL CRYING**

All three startled, their grips on each other (which they had maintained since arriving and had zero intention of releasing any time soon) reflexively tightening. They watched the Slender Man and listened. Waiting for more, waiting for something that could explain that bizarre statement. There even seemed to be a subtle change in that mist-saturated atmosphere. Disbelief? Frustration? Resignation? Did the background noise of crying children shift, too, to express the same sentiments?

**WHY**

The atmosphere changed again, still subtle, but stronger now. Like a hanging question one could just instinctively feel hanging in the air. Then, there seemed to be a chorus of voices repeating the same despairing question: Why? The abducted children . . .

“Okay . . .” Dipper intoned slowly. “Did it seriously just ask . . . why everyone is still crying? Like, you guys heard that, too, right? And we can all appreciate the irony of this demon-ghost-thing seriously wondering why terrifying kidnappings would make kids cry, right?”

Norman actually managed to chuckle. “Heh. It is p-pretty funny when you think—”

{YELL AT ME! Say _something_, Whitehawk! _Anything_, damn it all! _Damn it all_ . . . P-please . . . say _anything_ . . . Even that I’m a terrible person and you hate me . . . _Please_ . . .}

“Detoby?!” the Medium exclaimed, peering hard around them again. “Mister Whitehawk?!”

“Oh my gosh, are they _here_?!” Mabel asked hopefully.

“Shh! I’m trying to listen!”

{God damn it . . . I _know_ I’d deserve it—I _am_ a terrible person, and you _should_ hate me. But . . . P-please, snap out of this. I c-can’t . . . can’t take any more of being in this place _alone_ . . .}

“DETOBY! MISTER WHITEHAWK!” Norman shouted over the crying. “CAN YOU HEAR ME?!”

In a dazed tone of voice, the Jokergeist called back, {B-_Bugaboo_?! Is that you?!}

The Medium made to leap in the direction of the ghost’s voice, but Mabel clung to his hand. “Wait! Don’t let go!”

Norman jerked back against her and her brother. “What?! But Detoby’s—”

“Look at the other kids. _Look at them_,” Mabel said insistently. “None of them are touching. They’re all in groups, but none of them are touching.”

{Bugaboo?! Bug—Norman?! _Norman_, _where are you_?!}

“So?”

“All of them, they’re crying out of control. About being _alone_,” she added emphatically. “But _we_ aren’t, right? Why do you think _we_ aren’t?”

Dipper looked down at their hands. He still held one of Mabel’s and one of Norman’s. And they held one of each other’s now. “You think . . . You think it’s because we’re still holding onto each other?”

“We didn’t come in alone,” his sister asserted with a nod. “And because we’re still holding onto each other—”

“We _know_ we’re not alone! We can, like, literally _feel through our hands_ that we’re not alone!” Dipper finished excitedly. “She’s right, man! Don’t let go!”

{Don’t leave me here! Please say _you’re still here with me_! Please! _PLEASE_!}

Norman shook his head. “But Detoby—”

“We’ll help call him over to us!” the behatted boy volunteered before shouting, “DETOBY!”

“DETOBY!” Mabel chorused. “WE’RE OVER HERE!”

Norman did, too—unheeded by the Slender Man or any of the kidnapped children around them. As if the children were deaf and blind to the Mystery Kids’ presence. “DETOBY! CAN YOU HEAR US?!”

{C-coming! Please keep shouting! Don’t stop!} And, drifting drunkenly through the swirling haze and the washed-out light, the Jokergeist emerged. When he finally saw the kids, he soared to them with a cry of relief, {_Bugaboo_!} But, suddenly, he stopped short only a few feet from them. A look of horror was on his spectral face.

“W-what’s the matter?” the Medium asked.

{You’re _here_. Oh, God . . . You’re _here_, too That _thing_ got you, too. I’m so sorry. It’s r-_right_ about me—the voice is _right_! I f-_failed_ . . . I couldn’t even save you!}

“Detoby—”

Her voice frightened, Mabel asked, “What’s wrong?”

The Jokergeist seemed to crumble in on himself. {Forgive me, Norman! I _tried_! I tried _so_ _hard_! But I _screwed_ _up_ like I screw up _everything_! Possessed you, violated your mind, stole your life energy—}

“Detoby, please—”

{And for _nothing_! Nothing _at_ _all_! Little wonder you hate me! _I_ hate me! I deserve—}

“WHAT DOES A FISH SAY WHEN IT HITS A WALL?!”

“Huh?” Dipper and Mabel stared at Norman. Detoby stared at Norman. All were dumbfounded. Norman, however, was growing red-faced with embarrassment.

“The j-joke, Detoby. Remember the joke?”

{Y-yes, but—}

“Well? W-what does a fish say when it hits a wall? What’s the joke?”

Confused, Dipper completed it. “Dam?”

Mabel gasped. “_Really_, Dipper?! _Language_!”

“No, like the structure beavers make. That’s what the fish says.”

“And what does the wall say?” Norman exiged, “I want to hear you _say_ _it_, Detoby.”

{Dumb bass,} the Jokergeist murmured. {B-but . . . jokes _now_? At a time like _this_? It’s not really the time for . . .} Eyes wider than usual, he stopped himself. And then, with an almost manic resolution, he affirmed, {_Yes, it is_. Now is _exactly_ the time for jokes. Jokes were _made_ for these kinds of times. _That’s what I believe—what I’d say—what I am_! Now is _the best_ time for jokes. Because jokes _stop_ _us_ _from crying_! And it is _not_ going to get me crying now, that voice! Or you, either, Bugabeether!}

“That’s right!” Norman encouraged him.

“What is even going on?” Mabel murmured to Dipper.

He murmured back, “How the heck would I know? Just roll with it.”

“Also, what does the wall say?”

“Dumb bass.”

Mabel gasped again. “_Really_, Dipper? Just ‘cause I don’t know doesn’t mean that sort of insulting and vulgar language is called for.”

Dipper would have facepalmed if he’d had a free hand. “Not _you_. The _fish_. The wall calls the fish a dumb … _bass_.”

Spinning in midair, Detoby shouted, {YOU HEAR THAT, YOU DAMN BASTARD?! WE _WON’T_ CRY! WE’RE GONNA _LAUGH_ INSTEAD! _BECAUSE TOBIAS DETERMINED TELLS STUPID JOKES ALL THE TIME_, AND YOU ARE _NEVER_ GONNA CHANGE THAT! YOU ARE _NOT_ GETTING ME LIKE YOU GOT THE OTHERS! AND YOU SURE AS HELL ARE _NOT_ GETTING THESE THREE KIDS EITHER! YOU HEAR ME?! _HA_! HA HA _HAAAAA_!} And he honked defiance into the fog.

Swallowing, the Medium asked, “You good now?”

{Y-yeah . . .} the Jokergeist panted. {Better . . . But it’s not giving up. It’s not happy, either.}

“What isn’t happy? We need to know what’s going on. Who were you shouting at?”

“Seriously, what’s—”

**WHY ALWAYS CRYING**

All four of them startled and shuddered at the Slender Man’s sudden question, the desolation cast by it throughout the gray waste. But, squeezing both his friends’ hands, Norman pleaded, “J-just a sec; I’m finding out. P-promise.”

Gulping nervously, Detoby said, {There’s . . . this voice I keep hearing. And I think everyone else here does, too. Listen to them beat their gums—the things they’re saying,} he said with a gesture to the abducted children all around them.

“It was _my_ fault! _All_ _my_ _fault_! It should’ve been _me_ who got hurt! _Why_ wasn’t it _me_?!”

“Be pretty and smile, that’s what Mommy always says . . . But I’m n-never pretty _enough_ . . . And it _hurts_ to keep s-smiling . . . _Why_ can’t I just b-be prettier? _Why_ can’t I just be h-happy ‘nough to smile?”

“Why’re they always s-so mean to me? What’d I do? I m-must’ve done something . . . something r-really wrong . . . But I don’t know what it was!”

And even Gideon was whimpering, “_Baby_—I always act like a b-_baby_ . . . Like Momma says . . . But when I t-try to act like a m-_man_, she looks at me like I’m a _monster_! And Mabel, too! I just want them to _love_ me! To _respect_ me! W-why won’t they just love and respect me?!”

{It’s like . . . like each one of them is listening to a voice only they can hear—a voice that knows what words will hit them the hardest,} Detoby surmised desolately. {And the other spooky mooks? They’re like that, too, now . . . But when we first got here—}

Worried, Norman interrupted, “Where are they? Are they alright?”

Waving vaguely about, Detoby replied, {Around. Whitehawk’s over there. Chiu some Prunes and Bertie-Boy are off that way. They’re all blubbering away just like these kids _now_, but when we first came to this . . . _place_,} he said with a shudder, {they were _normal_. Surprised, yeah. Scared, absaposalutely. But soon they were muttering about how the voice was wrong—“it didn’t happen that way” or “I’m not like that” or “my family loves me”—then they got all weepy—“I didn’t mean for it to happen” or “I was doing my best” or “they made me do it”—and worse and _worse_ . . . And now . . . Now it’s like they can’t even hear _me_. Like all they hear is that voice. I tried _everything_ I could think of to snap them out of it . . . jokes, encouragement, pleading, insults—}

“You insulted them? So I _did_ actually hear you saying . . . _racist_ _things_ to Mister Whitehawk?”

{To get him angry enough to stop crying!} Detoby protested helplessly. {Anger at least motivates people to do things. Steamed energy, you might say,} he added with a reflexive honk. {But this despair? This nonstop weeping and wailing? It’s like it eats you away from the inside . . . Better to be angry at me than give in to whatever the voice is saying, right?}

“I . . . guess?” the Medium conceded uncertainly.

{I don’t know, Bugabeau . . . I was . . . I was just _desperate_ to snap them out of it. I feel rotten about it after what you and Robert taught me, but . . . I didn’t know what else to try . . .}

Norman shot a glance at Dipper and Mabel. “Do either of you hear a voice talking to you?”

Though baffled by this question, both shook their heads.

“What’s it like, Detoby? This v-voice you keep hearing?”

He closed his eyes, as if in pain. {Like . . . no voice, I’ve _ever_ heard . . . And it keeps saying things _no one_ should know; things I _never_ told a soul . . . D-don’t make me tell you, Bugaboo . . . _Please_ . . .}

“Alright,” the Medium said gently. “Can you . . . at least tell me the gist?”

{It’s talking about . . . _things_ I’ve done. That I’m _ashamed_ _of_ . . . What a bad person I am, and . . . and how I _deserve_ to be alone. Right now,} Detoby continued heavily, {it’s saying it’s not because my jokes are terrible people don’t laugh at them, but because _I_ am terrible, and they wish I would scram—}

“That’s _not_ true!” Norman interjected fiercely. “You know that, right?”

With a watery smile, the Jokergeist quipped, {Because my jokes actually _are_ terrible.}

“Because you’re a _good person_. And _I_ want you around.”

{As the triangle said to the circle.} Honk. Honk.

“Heh. Sure, yeah.” Looking back at the twins, the Medium quickly relayed what he’d been told.

Dipper looked at the Slender Man as Mabel looked at Detoby (or where she thought he was based off of where Norman had been looking). “So there’s a voice? Like in your head?” Dipper asked.

{Y-yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. Initially, even, I thought it might just have been my own thoughts, but . . . It didn’t make _any_ jokes or try to be uplifting in _any_ way. And that’s _not_ what my thoughts are like,} Detoby affirmed emphatically.

The Medium transmitted his answer.

“Is it—”

**CRYING NEVER STOPS**

They all startled and shuddered again, feeling the hopelessness of that statement hang in the air around them. Nonetheless, Dipper stiffened is back and inquired, “Is it like _that_? Like the Slender Man?”

{No Face?} Detoby shook his head. {No. It’s . . . it’s _different_. No Face brought us in here, but . . . that’s pretty much all he’s been doing since then: watching the kids, m-maybe shuffles them around in different groups but . . . I _think_ that’s all he was doing . . . Then he was gone. Then you were here.}

“So there is definitely a _second_ voice, right?” Dipper surmised keenly upon hearing this transmitted answer.

“Yes.” It was Mabel who answered. She spoke as if everything was suddenly crystal clear for her. “That’s what it was like: like there were _two_ voices . . .”

Her brother, her friend, and Detoby all looked at her.

“I . . . remember the Slender Man’s voice. Before I first, um . . .” She took a deep breath, then tremulously said, “Before I f-first opened the Cursed Door. And I also remember . . . thinking things that didn’t sound like me,” she recounted. “When I d-dreamed about the Door _and_ when I o-opened it . . . Both were in my head though . . . Kinda like, uh, like thoughts someone else was thinking in me, y’know? Like a voice talking to me. I thought it was just me, or like a dream, but now . . .” Quietly, she added, “That voice drove me away from all my friends and family, then convinced me to open the Cursed Door in the first place . . .”

“Okay, guys, this is _huge_!” Dipper exclaimed. “You know what this means, right? Something else other than the Slender Man is at work here! This separate voice has gotta be the key to _everything_!”

“B-but why aren’t _we_ hearing the other voice?” Norman wondered. “Not even _me_? Is it . . . because of the, um, because we’re h-holding hands, do you think?” he finished, his face reddening at the sight of his own in the behatted boy’s.

Mabel shrugged. “Maybe . . . It helps us remember that we’re now not in this alone, after all. When I . . . opened the door, I th-thought I was. That nobody cared how lonely I was . . . Like all these kids here . . . Hey! Maybe it’d help if someone held Detoby’s hand?” she suggested on a sudden burst of inspiration, looking automatically to their tall friend.

{But I’m a _ghost_,} the Jokergeist replied flatly. {I _can’t_ hold things.}

The Medium released Mabel’s hand and offered it to him (though he still held tight to Dipper’s). “Just shut up and try it already.”

Both Dipper and Mabel went, “D’awww!” She also added, “BGFFs: Best Ghost Friends Forever!”

Despite this, Detoby reached down and put his spectral hand around Norman’s corporeal one. Then he chuckled a little. {Heh. Imagine how this must look to them . . .}

“Yeah, well, s-_screw_ them . . . even if I _do_ happen to _like_ them . . . So, does it h-help?”

{A l-_little_ bit . . . Makes it easier to ignore the voice . . .} Detoby looked away then. He sniffed and passed his free hand across his eyes. He choked up a little. {A _lot_ easier . . . B-bless you, Bugaboo . . .}

“Heh. C’mon, ghost-man. K-keep it together,” the Medium teased him reflexively. Because emotions and guys (even though that is, scientifically speaking, a very _stupid_ reason to tease someone—even a guy—it is still wrongly considered, sociologically speaking, by many to be an acceptable one).

{Right . . . Right. S-sorry,} the Jokergeist apologized throatily. {It’s just that . . . You have _no_ _idea_ how _awful_ the voice is . . . It’s so hard not to listen—not to let it wear you down and make you give up.}

“How’d you even hold out this long all on your own?”

With a self-deprecating little smile, Detoby answered, {I’m a _Determined_; it takes _a lot_ to wear me down . . . And I’ve got nearly a century of experience at forcing myself to be optimistic at this point. Besides, even when the voice was doing its worst, I still had my faithful horn and rubber chicken to keep me from getting too lonely.} And he swung both appreciatively. {You’re never alone with a rubber chi—}

**CAN’T STOP IT**

“Um, guys? Look at that.” Mabel pointed through the nearby fog.

To their surprise, the Slender Man folded itself into a sitting position on the cold, hard ground. Cross-legged and elbows resting on its knees—a position that seemed . . . incongruous on such a tall and imposing figure, somehow—in the middle of all the children, the washed-out light, and the swirling fog, it just sat and looked . . . strangely despondent. Even lonesome.

After a moment of reflection, Dipper spoke with careful deliberation. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starting to think more and more that whoever or whatever this voice belongs to is the one who’s really behind _everything_. Like, the longer we’re in here, the Slender Man over there looks less and less capable of causing all the . . . the _misery_ in here and back outside. Like, just look at how _pathetic_ it is right now! But some sinister, disembodied voice that has a record of _taking advantage of my sister’s grief-stricken state_?” he rhetoricized with a flash of unconcealed wrath. “Yeah, I can believe a _monster_ like that could be the real cause of all this misery. Remember what it said in the Journal about a malevolent sentience from beyond our reality guiding the Cursed Door? If it can guide a portal and manipulate a person’s thoughts, then why not the Slender Man over there, too?”

{. . . Do you think it can hear the voice, too?} Detoby ventured. {Meaning in its noggin?}

Norman gasped, and as his thoughts began to form, the hand that “held” the Jokergeist’s began to wave around excitedly. “G-guys, what if Slendy _can_ hear the v-voice, too? And _only_ the voice? Y’know, like all of the kids here! The ghosts, too! What if _that_ is why I c-couldn’t talk to him before—couldn’t get through to him to stop taking kids, stop chasing us, couldn’t _help_ him?! Because he couldn’t even hear _anything_ but the voice directly in his head! Or . . . it c-_could_ be why. M-_maybe_,” he finished timidly.

{Er, Bugaboo? Can you stop waving that hand around for a second, please?} Detoby requested earnestly. {It’s, uh, rather difficult to ignore the voice when I can’t hold it.}

“Oh, sorry!” the Medium apologized, quickly holding his hand back out for him to take.

“Sounds legit to me,” Mabel affirmed. “So we find the voice . . . _then we kick it in the mouth_! _Boom_! Problem solved, another day saved thanks to the Mystery Kids, we all go home safely. But . . . how do we find it, though? When none of us can even hear it? Heck, when it can speak directly into the minds of all these kids and ghosts and Slendy? It could be _anywhere_!”

Norman cast his gaze about the gray waste of fog and cold, hard ground and dim light—a glow that seemed to come from everywhere at once, but only closely around the circles of missing children. Like the fog itself, in a way. Both ambient and all-encompassing. “. . . It c-could be _everywhere_ in here.”

{That would make kicking it the mouth a bit tricky.}

**CAN’T TAKE AWAY**

All of a sudden, Mabel’s face lit up (the opposite reaction of the boys and the ghost, and of all of the children around them). “_Of_ _course_!” Her free hand fluttered, emoting excitedly. “That’s it! _That’s_ _it_!”

“Uh, what—”

“Guys, Slendy wasn’t trying to take _us_ away forever! I just figured it out! Slendy was _never_ trying to hurt or scare or abduct anyone!” she insisted, almost elatedly.

“But it _said_ it was going to take us away forever,” Dipper countered. “And all the kids—”

“Nuh-uh! No, he _didn’t_! He said ‘take away forever’! But _what_—not _who_, but _what_—was he gonna take away?”

Norman and Dipper exchanged a confused glance.

“Think back. What was he always saying?” Mabel prompted them. “Like, _all_ the freakin’ time?”

“Um . . . l-loneliness?”

“Right _one thousand_, Norm-Norm! Slendy was out trying to take _our_ _loneliness_ _away_ _forever_ by playing a game of, like, tag with us, then bringing us here where there are tons of friends to play with!” Gesturing around at everyone, she continued, “Didn’t you say everyone started acting, like, all weird before they vanished? They were being, like, manipulated into being all _lonely_ and stuff—”

“_By the voice_! So the Slender Man would come for them!” Dipper finished excitedly as it clicked for him, too.

“Because he _is_ _also_ being manipulated by the voice!” Norman jumped in. “Into thinking that bringing them here will cure their loneliness!"

Detoby scratched his spectral head under his spectral hat. {. . . But _why_?}

“To cure their loneliness, like I just sa—”

{No, I mean, why would the voice want to make them lonely? Why trick tall, dark, and gruesome into bringing all these kids here?}

“Well, because . . . um, b-because . . .” the Medium faltered, then turned to the others. “What about the v-voice? Why even bring us h-here? Why c-_cause_ all the loneliness in the first place? Like, what does the v-voice even gain by it?”

Dipper opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. “Good question. Heh. Basically the same question we’ve been asking again and again since the beginning: _Why_?”

{While we’re puzzling over that conundrum, let’s not forget the practical one,} Detoby began, looking around. {Say the voice is the cause of all of this. Then we need to button its mouth—kick it, like the bearcat said. But that means we still need to _find_ it. And how are we supposed to find something that could be anywhere . . . or even everywhere?}

With a gulp, the Medium then transmitted that to the others, who were likewise stymied.

**WHAT DO**

Mabel took a deep breath and said, “Kay, this might sound like a coocoo-bananas idea, but . . .” With her free hand, she pointed at the apparent center of the roiling fog, the wan and weak light, and all of the abducted children—pointed at the Slender Man. “You think Slendy might know? ‘cause I think he might know, and we should try asking him.”

“But Norman tried before and couldn’t get through to it,” her brother replied.

“That was _outside_. In here, Slendy acts a lot different—isn’t playing tag or whatever anymore.”

“But if all it can hear is the voice, then—”

Norman shyly interrupted, “I th-think it’s worth a try. It’s _always_ worth a try to talk to someone feeling l-lonely. Especially if they haven’t gotten to t-talk with anyone, like, _nice_ in a while. Besides . . . talking worked with Aggie. I wanna try talking to him again.”

Mabel nodded with determination. “Yeah!”

Dipper couldn’t help but grin. “Well, when it comes to communing with supernatural entities, the Mystery Kids _do_ have one kick-asinine Medium.”

“Right!” Mabel agreed. “Now, let’s go try making friends with a lonely supernatural entity!”

{Flower crowns and pretty pink bows for everyone!} the Jokergeist cheered, honking his horn with his free hand as he did.

Dipper’s grin turned into a laugh—possibly the first that had ever been heard in that gray waste. Full and heartfelt and hopeful. “Mabel, it is so, _so_ good to have the _real_ you back!”

****

“. . . Here, I think?” Esmerelsa suggested. “Is empty.”

Blinking out of his torpor, Stan gazed ahead through the windshield. They were pulling into a city park alongside a river. “Hmm . . . Public place, but deserted at this hour. And it has lots of private areas that are hidden from view . . . Yeah, this’ll do.”

A moment later, they had pulled into the park. Then, without much further talk, they each found their own private area to change back into their normal clothes: a simple suit for looking respectable while grifting rubes for him, a forgettably bland pantsuit for blending into the background for her. Utilitarian clothing—comfortable (though perhaps “familiar” might be a better word) and unassuming; inconspicuous . . . certainly _not_ clothing for the type of people who would attend the premier charity event of the season, let alone stand out there.

“We eshould . . . throw it away,” Esmerelsa finally said. Even as her hold on the neatly folded regalia tightened reflexively.

“Yeah, I guess so . . .” Stan agreed just as reluctantly. “Almost makes me kinda . . . sad, though. Until the end, it was a _real_ good night. Had a time-and-a-half in these . . .”

Noticing the bloody cut in one of the golden sleeves, she asked, “Your arm . . . how is it?”

“Fine. Just a shallow cut. The bleedin’d mostly stopped by the time I changed. Then I used part of the fancy shirt to make a wrap for it.”

“Qué ingenio . . .”

They both stood there for a moment in silence. They looked at each other. They looked away. They both stole glances at the other, but did not make eye contact.

“If we, uh, wrap them round a rock, we can throw them in the river,” he suggested. “They’ll sink and not come back up.”

“Qué ingenio,” she repeated. “I esaw a rock over here that eshould work . . .”

As Stan made to tie it all together, he found her silver jewelry placed at the center of the gown. “Don’t you want to keep these?”

Esmerelsa shook her head. “Too dangerous to keep. I could be identified by it.”

“You think so? Only . . . that’s like throwing away actual money . . .”

She shrugged. “I estole about fifty million dollares from El Cartel. I can buy more if I want . . . And if I’m alive,” she added in an undertone.

“Still . . .” For the old man, throwing money away would have been crazier than throwing away one of his eyes; eyes could fail him or trick him, but money had always been as good as gold to him.

She shrugged again. “If you want los accesorios, you keep them.”

He pocketed the lot, murmuring, “Maybe save ‘em for Mabel Syrup’s birthday . . . Or birthdays—could count for quite a few birthdays . . .” Then, he found himself gazing down at the two beautiful masks. While he was not normally a man who appreciated art, he was struck by their beautiful craftsmanship; wearing them had been like wearing some sorta painting (one of those _good_ paintings, too . . . the kind that usually had a slightly chubby, topless woman somewhere in it—but in a way that anyone could tell was _artsy_, not _pornsy_—and a huge, fancy frame with fancy, curlicue shells on it, and that one could only see in some la-di-dah museum in France . . . or _maybe_ Italy). “Wish I didn’t have to destroy these . . .”

“If you want them, you keep them,” Esmerelsa offered again.

“They’d make a nice memento of . . . of the good parts of the night,” he admitted awkwardly. “We can always hide ‘em under the seats or in the trunk or—Hot Belgian Waffles!” he exclaimed quietly.

“Que?”

Wordlessly, he indicated the sun mask . . . and how one of the rays extending from it was gone. Sheared off a scant few inches from where it connected to the face.

“Ah, si . . . You notice at last,” she stated sadly, as though she had been waiting for him to do so. “That is from El Condor.”

“He . . . He nearly _shot_ me! That was _his bullet_ did this! _His bullet passed this close_ _to my head_!”

“Si, it did.”

“That’s only . . . _three inches_?! _Two_?! I almost got myself _killed_ tonight! I really did!”

“Si, you really did. eSeveral times.”

“And . . . And _the kids_! Holy Moses, _the kids_! What would they’ve done then?!”

“Si, you come to think of that at last,” she stated sadly, as though she had been waiting for him to do that, too.

“I . . . I . . .” Pressing his palms into his temples to stave off the attacking panic, he demanded, “How can you be so _calm_ right now?!”

She made no answer. Instead, she picked up the weighted bundle and walked off to the river. Alone, she pitched it as hard as she could out over the water. With a splash, it disappeared. By the time she returned, Stan was no longer panicking, so she said, “You were right, mi eStanford.”

“I . . . was?”

“You esaid that if we try again, we will regret it . . . by eSunday at the latest.” Pointing off to a building with a large clock visible (labeled “Carousel”), the woman who was no longer middle-aged (but who also now no longer looked nor sounded young at all) said, “It is eso late that is early on eSunday . . . and I regret that we try—I regret that I drag you into this danger with El Cartel.”

“Oh, um . . . Well, at least it’s _over_ now, right?” he said with forced joviality. “We escaped ‘em, and now we’ll slip away to hide out at my place. They’ll never find—”

“Si, they will,” she contradicted him flatly. “They find me here—here in _eSalem_, mi eStanford!—when not even I am knowing that I come here until this morning. eSo . . . they can find me everywhere. Unless I never estop moving . . .”

The old man said nothing. He did not look at her—he could not. At least, not directly . . . His eyes were fixed on her moon mask, though. “. . . You’re gonna leave me again, aren’t you?”

She did not look at him—she could not. At least, not directly . . . With her eyes on his sun mask, she affirmed, “. . . If you come with me, I will never leave you. But . . . you will not. You will estay with tus chicos, si?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I have to.”

She nodded back. “Then I have to leave you. To keep you and them esafe, eso that El Cartel never hurts you like they almost did tonight.”

“We . . .” Swallowing thickly, he managed to say, “We killed one of ‘em. Wasn’t he one of their best killers (or worst or whatever)? Won’t they think we’re too dangerous from now on, or something?”

“That is not how El Cartel works. They do not let a person challenge them and live—they will esend more and more, until finally they kill you and take me. And even if El Cartel wants to leave us tranquilos,” she continued bitterly, “El Condor never will. Not after we . . . we killed his partner.”

“S-so . . . um . . . W-what will you do?”

“I will take you home to los chicos, then . . . I will take my belongings and drive.”

Clenching his collar, but not as tightly as his own throat clenched itself, he asked “And . . . then?”

“. . . I do not know,” she admitted tightly. “I will find esomeplace and do . . . esomething that will catch the notice of El Cartel. I will let them esee me—esee that I am . . . alone—and then I will go on. Always I will go on . . . until I no can go no more . . . Y tú y los chicos estarán a salvo, al menos . . .”

The old man looked away in a vain attempt to curb his emotions. He swiped angrily at his eyes. Though he wished desperately to say something, he couldn’t form a single word.

For her part, though, the woman who was no longer middle-aged picked up the two masks, then offered him a hand up. “Come, mi eStanford . . . We go back to Gravity Falls and los chicos. You worry for them, no? Remember? We go to them now . . . It is time . . .”

Swallowing thickly, he took her hand. “Y-yeah . . . Alright. Let’s g-go.”

****

Unafraid and filled with determination (perhaps because they never ceased to hold each other tightly by the hand—not even once), the Mystery Kids plus Detoby started to approach the Slender Man. They wound their way around clusters of abducted children seated and crying on the cold, hard ground. Up close, where the fog could no longer obscure their view of finer details, they couldn’t help but notice just how haggard and drawn they appeared. And that was the _best_ among them; some were worse—some were downright emaciated.

Shaking her head, Mabel observed, “Fancy Moses, they look like haven’t eaten in days . . . Heck, some look like they haven’t eaten in _weeks_!”

“Yeah,” her brother concurred grimly. “Probably the ones who disappeared earlier. But I guess they’re lucky they don’t look worse—don’t look like they haven’t eaten in the _years_ they’ve been gone.”

“They’d be c-corpses if they looked like that,” Norman pointed out.

“_Exactly_.”

They reached the Slender Man then. However, like the children they had just passed, it seemed not to notice their presence; its blank face did not turn in their direction, nor did it stir in the slightest from its cross-legged position. Not even when they stood right beside it.

**NEED STOP CRYING**

Subtly, the atmosphere changed again. Desperation seemed to hang in it now, not just despair.

“Um . . .” Norman looked to his friends uncertainly, as if to ask who should actually speak first or what they should actually say.

Dipper shrugged. In a low voice, he pointed out, “_You’re_ the Medium here.”

“Y-yeah, but I’m also _terrible_ at t-talking to people.”

Perfectly in sync, both Dipper and Detoby argued, “No, you’re not. You’re great at it. We talk _all the time_.”

“We also kn-know each other_ already_. I don’t have to, like, st-start from introductions with you. I _hate_ those; I never know what to say, and I always s-sound like an _idiot_. Don’t have to worry about that with you. M-most of the time, at least.”

“I thought cross-plane communication was supposed to be your area of expertise.”

{Area of—he’s not even _fourteen_ yet!} Detoby scoffed, indignant on the Medium’s behalf. {He’s not _old enough_ to have an area of expertise yet!}

**NEED STOP LONELINESS**

“Er, l-look,” Norman began bracingly. “Why don’t we—”

“HELLO! MY NAME’S MABEL!”

“_Gah_!” both boys plus the Jokergeist jolted in surprise.

She then cheerily shouted, “LET’S BE FRIENDS! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

The Slender Man still gave no indication of having heard them. Not even her, in all her volume.

Clearing his throat, the Medium then tried, “H-hello? Can you hear me? I’m N-Norman . . . And, um, I’m a Medium. Which means I’m supposed to be, like, the b-bridge between the physical and the spiritual worlds . . . I guess? So, uh, anyway, I th-think we can help you!”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch.

{Hmm?} Detoby cocked a spectral ear, then gravely said, {Don’t know if this is a good sign or not, but the voice . . . the voice is being _real_ insistent that this is futile. So . . . keep trying, I reckon? If it discourages what you’re doing, then you must be doing _something_ right.}

With a nod, the Medium raised his voice, “H-HELLO? WHATEVER YOU’RE FEELING—”

**TELL HOW**

Behind the faceless blank, another expression seemed to be pushing out. Stretching it upward, features wide and open . . . A hopeful expression? But not towards them—not because of them . . . Listening or looking upward, it seemed, to something or someone else . . .

“The voice!” Norman realized. “DON’T LISTEN TO IT! IT’S _NOT_ TRYING TO HELP YOU! _WE_ _ARE_!”

**MORE FRIENDS**

“_NO_!” Mabel shouted desperately. “THAT _WON’T_ HELP! THAT’LL DO THE _OPPOSITE_ OF HELP!”

Dipper added his voice to his sister’s. “THAT’LL JUST MAKE _MORE_ LONELINESS!”

“AND YOU DON’T WANT THAT, REMEMBER?! YOU WANNA _TAKE_ LONELINESS AWAY!”

**BUT ALWAYS FRIENDS HERE CRYING**

“_Exactly_!” Dipper affirmed. “Which is why you should let them all go home—let _us_ all go home!”

“Then we can help you, too! We can help you resolve your unfinished business and move on!” Norman insisted. “We can—”

**TELL HOW MORE FRIENDS HERE HELP STOP LONELINESS**

“For the love of—_THEY_ _WON’T_!” Norman yelled. “Fricative! Just . . . _JUST LISTEN TO US_!”

“THE VOICE IS JUST _USING_ _YOU_, MAN!”

“SLENDY, THE VOICE IS _NOT_ YOUR FRIEND!”

“THE VOICE IS WHAT’S _CAUSING_ THE LONELINESS!”

**KEEP TRYING**

{It’s not getting through, Bugaboo!}

“Not helpful, Detoby! I _know_ it’s not getting through! I can clearly deduce that from context!” the Medium snapped.

{And the voice keeps saying it won’t get through—it _can’t_ get through—because he’s blind and deaf to us . . . And, uh, the voice is laughing about that, now,} Detoby added heavily.

**TRY AGAIN**

“Gah! Bull . . . _sheep_!” Norman cussed in frustration. He even kicked at the cold, hard ground. “How am I supposed to communicate with someone who’s deaf _and_ blind to me?! I can’t be a Medium for someone who can’t even tell I’m standing _right freakin’_ _next_ _to_ _him_!”

“What if . . . Okay, new idea: If we can’t talk to the Slender Man, what if we tried to follow him?” Dipper proposed. “Like, next time it goes through the Cursed Door back there to go grab another kid, uh, we follow it. Even if that doesn’t lead us to the voice, we might at least be able to sneak past it and out.”

Exasperated, Mabel face-palmed. “Bro-Bro, your solution is _always_ to stalk things! Just ‘cause that happened to work in Norm-Norm’s case—”

Both Detoby and Norman looked over in unison. “Wait, what?”

“—doesn’t mean it’ll work in _this_ case.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Dipper retorted impatiently. “If you’ve got a better idea—”

**TRY AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN**

“I . . . _do_ have a _different_ idea, though I don’t know if it’s better per se,” Mabel said slowly. “Though I do know you’re not gonna like it; it’s more coocoo-bananas than my last one.”

Guardedly, her brother asked, “. . . And what is it?”

Straightening her back and straightening her backpack, she answered, “This.” And then she reached out her free hand towards the Slender Man.

Dipper’s and Norman’s and Detoby’s eyes all went wide. They cried out as one, “_No_!”

But too late to stop her; the besweatered girl laid a hand on the Slender Man’s knee.

**HOPE WORKS THIS TI**—

At her touch, the Slender Man finally reacted to their presence; slowly, the blankness of its face turned in their direction—turned in _her_ direction. Had eyes been in that faceless stretch of bone-white, they might have even come to meet hers.

**WHO THERE**

“_Moses_!” Dipper squeaked. His hand tightened around his sister’s.

But, though her heart hammered in her chest, Mabel’s gaze did not falter. Her bright, brown eyes looked up unflinchingly at the Slender Man featurelessness—as close to eye contact as she could make between them. Then, with a gulp, she answered. “. . . Hiya. I’m Mabel.”

No response was made. After a tense moment of silence, Detoby exhaled heavily. {I think that just took a few years off my death. Didn’t even reckon that was possible, but now I’m half-aliv—}

**CAN’T SEE**

{_Jeepers H. Creepers_! I wish it would _stop_ doing that!}

Mabel gave the Slender Man’s knee a reassuring little squeeze. “Maybe not. But I’m still here. Just the same, I’m still here. _We_ are still here. To help you.”

**CAN’T HEAR**

“But . . . he c-can _feel_, though,” Norman stammered. “So we . . . we got a way to communicate with him now . . . Thanks, for that Mabel. Even if you d-_did_ almost give me a frackin’ heart atta—_jeez_!”

Slowly, the Slender Man leaned down towards the besweatered girl, as if to get a better look. Bowing that tall, thin body sideways into an unnatural arc from waist to neck, until they were almost nose-to-no-nose.

Sweating bullets, her brother tried to draw her back. “Mabel . . .” he squeaked. “Be careful . . .”

But she did not move—she did not breathe, either, but she did not move. She stood her ground.

**BUT CAN’T SENSE LONELINESS**

Breathing deep, Mabel let go of the Slender Man’s knee . . . then laid her hand on his shoulder. Gently. Warmly. Firmly enough that he should feel it, and she could feel the bones beneath his ragged, black suit. So emaciated . . . So glacial . . . Like he truly had received no food in years, and no warmth at all, either . . . “You prob’ly _haven’t_ in here . . .” she realized, pityingly, under her breath.

“Oh my gosh! _That_’s how it can track us without being able to see or hear us!” Dipper suddenly burst out, but quietly. “It can literally _sense_ loneliness! Man, figuring _that_ out’s been driving me nuts . . . And you know what that means?” he asked sidelong at his friend. “It really _does_ have a ‘Sixth Sense’!”

Norman groaned, as if in pain, “_Seriously_? How many t-times are you gonna tell that joke?”

“However many it takes to get someone to laugh, because—dang it—that’s a _funny_ joke!”

“Fine. Ha ha, very clever,” Norman retorted in a completely monotone voice. “Satisfied now?”

“In that regard, yes,” Dipper stated. “So now we can . . . Wait, what’s it doing?”

Cautiously, as if afraid a sudden movement would frighten away whoever had finally reached out to touch that lonely knee and that lonely shoulder, the Slender Man reached across towards Mabel. With reciprocal gentleness, a long and skeletal hand came down on her besweatered shoulder.

**HOW**

Ignoring the boys, Mabel answered, “Because I’ve got my brother and my friend and my ghost.”

{I rather resent that. I’m _my_ _own_ ghost,} Detoby grumbled.

“We’ve all got each other,” she continued sincerely. “We didn’t let the voice, like, pulls us away from each other and isolate us. Like it’s done to _you_ and _everyone else_ here. But we can help fix that.”

**WHO**

“I told you, my name is Mabel. This is my brother, Dipper, and our friend, Norman. And Detoby is prob’ly still there, but I can’t actually see him and I’m guessing you can’t either. What’s your name?”

The Slender Man did not answer.

Whispering into Norman’s ear, the Jokergeist reported worriedly, {The voice _isn’t_ laughing now. Definitely _not_ laughing. I figure we must have stumbled onto something crackerjack here—the bearcat figured out something major with her gamble—but . . . Let’s just say the house might try to come end this poker game afore we can collect our winnings and get out of dodge if we don’t hurry.}

With a fearful little gulp, the Medium nodded.

Mabel asked again, “What’s your name?”

**WISH COULD HEAR AGAIN**

A subtle change once again spread throughout the mist-saturated atmosphere, but this one was of a deep sadness. A sorrow beyond the comprehension of the Mystery Kids or Detoby.

**WISH COULD SEE AGAIN**

Now, perhaps more than ever before, loneliness hung over that gray waste. Colder and harder than the ground on which the abducted children sat and cried. The kind of loneliness that one might know in the deepest depths of the ocean, or on the dark side of the moon.

Throatily, Dipper intruded on the silence. “Does this mean . . . we _can’t_ talk to it after all?”

“N-not even touching is getting through,” Norman sighed hopelessly.

“Bu there’s got to be some other way to communicate, though,” the behatted boy insisted.

“B-but I . . . I don’t know what we could even t-_try_ next . . .”

The Jokergeist shook his head so hard that his spectral hat nearly fell off. {We try again. We keep flapping our gums with the Slender Man until that gets results or we think of something better. Because that voice? It’s taunting us again. And you know what that means? It wants us to give up on that. Before, when stable Mabel was talking, it was _not_ pleased—not by a country mile. You know what that means? She was doing something _right_. So keep. Talking. To. The Slender Man.}

“Deotby, what good does it do to talk to someone who can’t even _hear_ us?” the Medium asked in exasperation. “All he can sense from us is touch, and that’s just not enough!”

{I don’t know. But what I can tell you, Bugaboo, is that sometimes even a useless gesture means the world to someone. Like laughing, even though we all know death is inevitable. Don’t give up.}

“Maybe, but—”

**LONELINESS**

“Well . . . What if you guys touched him, too?” Mabel suggested. “Like, okay, I know guys think they aren’t _supposed_ to be all touchy-feely and such, but . . . I mean, you _have_ been holding hands since we got here, so—”

Norman blushed as red and as sweet as the most perfect of autumn apples. Dipper, for his part, sputtered in embarrassment, “Sh-_shut up_! We’re only still doing it ‘cause you told us we had to in here!”

“_Suuuuure_,” she said with a mischievous grin. The kind she knew would really aggravate him, simply because it always did. “But, anyway, since the ‘_no_ being all touchy-feely’ ship has already sailed, why not get aboard the ‘_yes_ being all touchy-feely’ ship? Why not try showing Slendy some of your _love_, too? Maybe if we all try doing it together . . .”

“Gahra_grahda_ . . .” her brother grumbled. “How are we even supposed to do that _and_ hold onto each other at the same time? I’m holding both of you, and Norman’s also holding Detoby.”

The brace-faced grin only got bigger and shinier. “Well, Detoby could just, like, _hug_ Norm-Norm from behind. He’s a ghost, so there’d be no problem—wouldn’t get uncomfortable or, like, cumbersome at all (not _physically_). And as for you, Bro-Bro, well . . . You could just swing a foot up onto Slendy’s knee. If he can’t see anyway, he won’t know. Might as well use that. Besides, it’s the thought that counts.”

**STILL SO MUCH LONELINESS**

With a groan, Dipper hung his head and shook it. “Why is my life like this? How did it happen?”

{Not a terrible strategy, I reckon. Er, logistically speaking. For her own, er, _particular_ battle plan,} the Jokergeist conceded. Then, being careful to place a ghostly hand on Norman’s arm as he floated up and around behind him—never breaking the almost-physical contact that kept the voice and the despair at bay—he awkwardly put his arms around Norman’s shoulders. {Er . . . What say you, Bugaboo?}

“This is . . . h-honestly kinda weird.”

{Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of cozy,} the Jokergeist reminisced, though whether sincerely or in teasing jest was anybody’s guess. {Reminds me of some of my nights in the trenches, where me and the other soldier boys, for warmth, had to snuggle up real close and cozy with each other.}

“_Not_. Helping. To make this. _Less_. Weird. Detoby,” the Medium retorted curtly. Then, turning to his behatted friend, he reported, “G-guess we’re doing it. I got a free hand again, at least.” And, to accentuate the point, he waved it unenthusiastically.

“Good, then do me a favor first before we implement anymore of Mabel’s bat-crap craziness,” Dipper requested in a defeated monotone. “Rub the bridge of my nose for me, would ya?”

Norman blinked in surprise. Then he blinked in surprise again. “Uh . . . O-okay?” With a few jerky and tentative movements, he then reached over until he was touching the behatted boy’s beautiful, perfect, beautiful face. Something he now realized he had longed to do since first meeting him—and was now actually doing!—even if this was not exactly a way he would have ever expected to do so, nor the way he would have ideally preferred . . .

Dipper, characteristically oblivious, closed his eyes for a moment to just . . . enjoy the sensation, it seemed. “Ah, yeah . . .” he breathed luxuriously—which only gave his friend some confusing feelings he was not yet adequately equipped to identify, let alone deal with. “_That_ right there is _the_ _stuff_—really expresses all of the _exasperation_ I am currently feeling towards my bat-crap crazy sister . . .”

Coolly, Mabel asked, “You done yet?”

“One . . . more . . . sec—”

**NEED TRY AGAIN BRING MORE FRIENDS**

Dipper instantly snapped out of his melodramatic gesture. “You can stop, Norm. Let’s do this.” And, never loosening his grip on his sister’s nor his best friend’s hands, he shuffled forward to swing his foot up and onto the Slender Man’s knee. Right where Mabel had first placed her hand.

Slowly, the Slender Man now turned in his direction. Even cocked its head at him, as if curious.

**ANOTHER CAN’T SEE**

“Moses, that’s still terrifying as folk . . .” Dipper muttered, balancing on his one leg. “Well . . . Hi, Mister Slender Man. Er . . . Hello and howdy.”

**WHO**

“Dipper. Like my sister told you.”

{The turn is to you, Bugaboo,} Detoby prompted. {And you had best get a wiggle on, because that voice is back to sounding less than pleased with what you kids are doing. Makes me really antsy—makes me wonder if it might try something soon . . .}

“R-right . . .” Before he was even aware of it, the Medium’s free hand was rubbing his ear and running through his hair. The Jokergeist’s close proximity (that bushy, spectral moustache was practically inside his ear) was _not_ helping him feel more comfortable, and neither was his nervousness; the Medium felt he had quite enough of his own without more brushing directly inside his ear.

A second later, Mabel said, “Now you, Norm-Norm.”

“R-Right!” Norman repeated, inching closer. “Guess this is . . . w-worth a shot, at least. Not like we’ve got any better ideas . . . Um, again, my n-name is Norman.” He reached towards the skeletal hand still resting—almost desperately, as if afraid to lose this first, unexpected, and all too tenuous contact with someone not consumed by loneliness—on the besweatered girl’s shoulder. “Can you hear us at all? We’re here to—”

The second his hand touched the Slender Man’s, everything fell away from the Medium—everything except his own self and the Slender Man . . . Gone was the roiling fog, the wan and weak light surrounded by darkness, the cold, hard ground . . . the sight and the sound of the crying children . . . Even the presence of Dipper and Mabel and Detoby; only a vague sense of them, like a distant warmth—that of starlight on his skin—that hinted where heat and life could be found, remained to him . . . It was like he only had the vaguest sense that he still stood beside them, still held Dipper’s hand even now . . .

Looking around himself and the Slender Man, he now saw utter nothingness. As if they were in the deepest, darkest depths to ever exist before, during, or after time. Only his own body seemed to exist, standing upon the nothingness, with the tall, thin form of the Slender Man sitting cross-legged thereupon, too . . . A strangely familiar feeling to Norman . . .

“Oh. A vision . . . A vision of your past? Then sh-show me, please. Show me who you are . . . and show me what . . . what happened to you. Show me how to help.”

Lights switched on overhead. Fluorescent bulbs in a ceiling made of tiles from mineral fiber pulp. Beneath them, some kind of bland linoleum, easy to clean and resistant to scarring from high traffic use. And ahead of them was a bed of sterilized sheets, pillows, blankets. A metal frame on well-oiled wheels.

“A hospital room. Or a room in a clinic of some kind . . . You stayed here, didn’t you?”

A boy entered. Older than Norman, but not by much. Taller than Norman, too, but not by much. His face looked strangely familiar, too, as if Norman had seen it somewhere before, though he couldn’t place when or where or why . . . The boy climbed into the bed. And there he remained, barely moving, as people came and went. Orderlies, nurses, doctors, regular people—family and friends, with other kids being the most frequent at first, other teens . . . the boy’s best friends when first admitted here?—blurred around him, they came and went so fast, but the boy remained in the middle of it all. In the bed, barely moving, while what was practically a haze of people swirled around him. Or a fog of people, perhaps. With them, a distant babble and chatter. The sound of people talking—the sound of all those orderlies, nurses, doctors, regular people, family and friends as they came and went . . .

“That’s you in the bed, isn’t it?”

It was like watching a time-lapse of the boy’s stay in that hospital (or clinic or whatever it was). His skin grew paler and paler while the other teens gradually came less and less . . . until they no longer came at all . . . Then his hair fell out. His body grew gaunter and gaunter while the regular people’s visits diminished, too, until they hardly came at all either . . . Even the orderlies and nurses and doctors weren’t swirling around the boy as much anymore . . . He was left more and more alone, it seemed . . .

{Bugaboo?}

All throughout, the distant babble and chatter would crescendo and decrescendo without rhyme or reason, though over time it tended to grow quieter and quieter . . . as if harder to hear . . . Likewise, the fluorescence from above and the visual sharpness of the people who came and went tended over time to grow hazier and hazier . . . as if harder to see . . .

{You think of something, Bugaboo?}

And the boys eyes? That was the hardest part for Norman to watch. All throughout, they grew dimmer and dimmer . . . It was like watching a time-lapse of someone slowly dying on the inside . . . someone cut off first from friends, then from family, and then finally even from passing contact with those professionals engaged to provide him with medical care . . . A time-lapse of someone succumbing to the slow poison that is isolation . . . Then the boy rolled onto his side, away from Norman.

“No wonder you’re so lonely . . . But I don’t understand what was wrong? Why were you there?”

Two forms stood before the bed and the boy now, barely discernable as hospital or clinical staff. They worked and they talked, and though their voices were muddled, they could clearly be understood.

“You sure it’s okay to work with him in bed? Aren’t we disturbing him?”

“Oh, right. You’re new here, so you don’t know about him.”

“Know what?”

“He’s got some mystery disorder. The doctors aren’t sure what it is—they think it might be some rapid nerve degeneration in his brain, kinda similar to Alzheimer’s, but not effecting the memory. Least, not as far as anyone can tell. Anyway, he’s been going deaf and blind for a while, and probably has no idea we’re even here.”

“Jeez. Both deaf and blind? Poor kid.”

“You don’t know the half of it. He’s got good days where he can see or hear or both well enough for normal interaction. Or close enough. I mean, he has fallen out of practice with talking as a result. But he also has very bad days where he can barely do either. And those are getting more frequent.”

“So he knows what he’s missing, then? He knows what he’s losing?”

“Norman? Norman, you listening?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor kid knows. And still having his memory probably makes it a lot worse. I mean, two years ago? He was fine. Completely normal kid. Loved basketball and was pretty good at it, I hear. You can see how tall and lanky he was for his age, right? Probably would’ve done it through middle and high school, been power guard or center. Not anymore, though.”

“And learning Sign Language wouldn’t help him much because he can’t see half the time.”

“Yep. And he can’t talk with people or listen to music because he can’t hear. I mean, it’s sad. He’s alive, but not really living anymore. His friends don’t come by, even his family does less and less.”

“That’s terrible. How could they abandon him like that?”

“I know, but I can’t really blame them. It breaks my heart, and I didn’t even know him before. Imagine what it must be like to come and visit him, knowing more than half the time he can’t even tell that you’re there—knowing that he’s just, like, a shadow or a shell of his former self. I mean, it must be unbearably painful for them. Wouldn’t be able to go through that, either. I’m not strong enough.”

“Norm-Norm? Earth—or wherever we are—to Norm-Norm? Come in, Norm-Norm?”

“I guess. How long do they think he has before he loses all sight and hearing?”

“Hard to say, but I overheard some of them say it probably won’t even be another four months. And they’re not sure how much longer he’ll live after that, either. I mean, it is a mystery disorder.”

“If it were me, I don’t think I would want it to be very long after that.”

“If it were me, honestly, I’d have ended it all months ago. I mean, why stay alive at this point? C’mon, it’s time to get to the next room.”

And then, the two forms were gone from the room. They boy sat up and hung his head, and Norman wished he could do something to comfort him . . . But he knew he could not, for this was merely a vision of things past. That boy was long gone . . . Or rather, that boy was the Slender Man seated beside him now; he had somehow become the Slender Man. Still, out of reflexive compassion, Norman squeezed the pale, skeletal hand under his own.

“You heard it all, didn’t you? That was a quote-unquote _good_ day, and you heard. I’m s-so sorry; that must have hurt you terribly. What happened after that, please?”

A ways behind the boy’s bed, a door appeared in the nothingness. No, Norman realized, not just a door, but the Cursed Door. It looked different—different color, different design, different placement of the #13 placard—but Norman could tell it was the same Cursed Door. Whether in that hospital or clinic, or in Gravity Falls, or in any of the different towns where it had appeared and children had disappeared, it was always the same Cursed Door. With the same voice, and Norman heard it now.

They can’t get through to you, so they’ve stopped trying. They’ve stopped caring about you.

But I can get through to you, and I’ll never stop caring about you.

They’ve left you alone. But I never will leave you.

I’ll be your friend forever.

Come to me.

Uneasily, Norman watched as the boy turned his head in the direction of the Cursed Door. Listening to the voice from beyond it, as he himself had done. As Mabel had done.

Your pain grows worse with every passing day. You ache and you hurt, and you do it all alone.

But I understand. I can share your pain with you. I can take it all away.

I can make it so you won’t be alone or hurt ever again.

I’ll be your friend forever.

Come to me.

Though still in bed, the boy was turned entirely in the direction of the Cursed Door. And Norman could not blame him, not when he knew all too well what it was like to find no comfort among the living. To be so desperate for companionship, because it seemed that all friends and all family had left you, that _anything_ would be latched onto without hesitation. Anything was better than nothing, right?

“How long did it work on you? How long was it the only voice you could always hear? The only voice still trying to speak to you? It must . . . must have been so hard for you. So lonely . . .”

Regular people arrived all of a sudden, though their features were eroded into near anonymity by the boy’s advancing blindness; through his deafness, their voices were nearly too muffled to hear. Norman suddenly realized—like the boy’s own realization had been a sudden surprise, perhaps?—that they were the parents and siblings of the boy. His family. They had brought him a suit: simple and black, rumpled and ill-fitting on a body now emaciated from chemical treatments. They helped him put it on and pose in the middle of them. A family portrait taken in a hospital room. Forced and sad smiles.

“You think he’s having another vision? He’s not freaking out like last time.”

It was familiar to Norman, this posed image of one final instance of family togetherness. Yes, Norman had seen it somewhere before. Or part of it. He had seen the boy before, at least, like this. When and where and why, though? What had his name been?

“Gotta be that. He’s, like, in a trance or something.”

Then, just as suddenly, the regular people—the infrequent family members—were gone again. Alone again, the boy did not even bother to sit back on his bed, nor remove that simple, black, rumpled, and ill-fitting suit. Instead, he turned completely towards the Cursed Door.

They brought a funerary suit and left it here to save themselves time preparing you for burial.

But I won’t leave you to wither and die here all alone. I haven’t given up on you.

They took a final photo to remember you. This was farewell for them.

But not for me. I’ll be your friend forever.

Come to me.

From the boy, there seemed to be no hesitation at all. He shambled weakly beyond the bed and towards the Cursed Door. The passage of distance seemed compressed, yet Norman still felt the boy crossing it, though every mark of it—doorways, hallways, stairways—was as fleeting and insubstantial as a sign on a highway. The boy tottered unsteadily but determinedly onwards, all while Norman watched. Without any impediment. Without meeting another soul to stop him. The Cursed Door’s work, as well?

“Should we . . . try to wake him up, you think? Snap him out of it?”

Finally, the boy was there. He swayed wearily, eyes turned upward hopefully to the #13 placard. “Cccah . . . Can youuu . . . rrreal-ly make . . . evvv’ry th-thing . . . bet-ter?” he asked laboriously.

Inside me, all your suffering will be over. The ache, the hurt, and the loneliness will be gone.

I will take it away from you. Your body will not fail you ever again.

What you truly want now, I will give to you inside.

I’ll be your friend forever.

Come to me.

“Wwwha-tuh I . . . trul-ly wan-tuh? Tha’s . . . mmmy frien-ds back . . . Play with ‘em . . . ‘gain . . . Beee well ‘nuff ‘gain . . .” the boy insisted. “Dashhh . . . Paul-ina . . . Sssam . . . Tuck-er . . . an’ Danny . . .”

“I . . . I don’t know. What if he’s seeing something important—something we need to know?”

Norman felt his breath catch in his chest. Those names! He _knew_ those names! The first children who had disappeared, taken by the Slender Man—_taken by the boy and this voice_! From that small town called . . . Something Park? it started with an M, maybe? or an “em” sound? or an “ahm”? or an “am”? Norman had its name on the tip of his tongue . . . And he’d recognize it the second he heard it, but . . . Well, no matter; Norman knew it was that really haunted town in Connecticut. He was absolutely sure! Which meant . . . the boy—the Slender Man—had to be the kid who the children of . . . Something Park (or whatever) were sure was stalking them even though he had already died!

“That’s it! That’s who you are! But—gah!—I can’t remember what your name was!”

So . . . You want to bring others to me? Bring them to join you inside me? That’s . . . an idea . . .

“Fff tha-tuh . . . mmmeans we’ll . . . all be . . . frien-ds ‘gain . . .” the boy struggled to articulate. “All be ab-ul . . . play to . . . gether ‘gain . . . hhhan-guh out . . . I’ll do . . . nnny th-thing!”

Even go in search of your friends and bring them back to me?

“Yyyeh, but . . . hhhow? Mmm so . . . ti-erd . . . Can-nnn bare-ly . . . stan-duh . . .”

I suppose . . . I can spare you a portion of my sustenance. Some of my own energy to power you.

“Wwwill tha-tuh . . . hhhel-puh me . . . sssee ‘n’ hear ‘gain all the tuh-time?”

I can make it so you can sense where they are. I am sure I should be able to, especially with the extra sustenance you shall bring me . . . Yes, more than worth giving you a few scraps.

“Wha?”

Don’t worry. It will be fine. And fun, too. It will be like . . . a game of Blind and Deaf Man’s Bluff.

“Heh heh! ‘s funny . . . Nnno one mmmakes . . . jjjo-kuhs ‘round me . . . nnny-more . . .”

Then come inside. It is time.

Before Norman’s eyes, the boy opened the Cursed Door and walked forward into the gray waste and the roiling fog. A slam followed . . . and the boy was lost. Norman swore he heard the voice laugh.

This may hurt a lot . . . but I promise it will be well worth it when you have more friends in here with you than you can count. Stuffing me full.

In a great rush of compressed time as fleeting and insubstantial as gusts of wind, the boy fell and he rose up simultaneously. A lifeless corpse upon the cold, hard ground . . . and a confused ghost above what had been his own living body just seconds ago . . . A trapped ghost, there beyond the Cursed Door. A ghost who could not move on—could not escape—because he was somewhere that did not connect to the world of spirits; or, if it did, the way was blocked by the voice. Then, suddenly, a portion of the fog and the cold and even the light of that gray waste rushed into the boy’s ghost. Spectral luminescence filled him . . . and he began to change, to morph into something . . . different . . .

{Bugaboo? Buga—_hell’s bells_! Norman, what’s wrong?!}

Norman wanted to look away. But he just couldn’t tear his gaze from this nauseating transformation, no matter how much horror or sorrow it filled him with. His Medium’s eyes saw it all.

“Bro-Bro, do something!”

Taller and taller, the boy’s ghost grew; thinner and thinner, paler and paler, lonelier and lonelier, though the voice was always with him . . . Perhaps lonelier and lonelier _because_ the voice was always with him . . . Becoming something inhuman, the boy’s ghost tried to scream, but he had become something unseeing, unhearing, and especially unspeaking. His voice so unused he had lost his mouth, his eyes so dim they had faded away completely . . . Faceless. Nameless. Hopeless . . . The boy had forgotten who he was, so possessed was he of loneliness . . . so void of everything but loneliness . . .

“So you basically became _loneliness_ _itself_. Like an incarnation of loneliness . . . I’m so sorry . . . Those’re st-_stupid_ words for something like this, b-but . . . I _am_ so, so sorry that you’ve suffered like this. But th-thank you for showing me this. I can help you now; I _know_ _how_ to hel—”

A yell of “C’mon, man, snap out of it!” in the Medium’s ear and a strong shake of his whole arm (both from Dipper) brought the vision to an end. His other hand still rested on the Slender Man’s, but now they were no longer alone in utter nothingness while buried memories became apparitions to swirl around them. Only the roiling fog swirled around them now.

“S-sorry. I’m back now. Sorry,” Norman apologized automatically.

{Oh, thank the Saints . . .} Detoby breathed in the Medium’s ear, relief in every syllable.

**WAS WHAT**

Dipper shook his head. “Geez, man, you gotta stop doing that to me.”

“Why . . . Why is my face wet?” Norman asked, even as he blinked to clear his eyes.

“Um, you went all faraway stare on us—having a vision, I guess?—and then you started crying all of a sudden,” Mabel explained, though her voice revealed she herself was hoping for an explanation of events in return. “Was it . . . really sad, what you saw?

Unable to rub his eyes since he still needed to hold the Slender Man’s hand and Dipper’s hand, Norman tried to make do with his shoulder. It was _mostly_ able to wipe the tears away. “Uh . . . Y-yeah. Yeah, it was p-pretty bad.”

**ANOTHER CAN’T SEE**

{Well, spill the beans! What was revealed to you, Bugaboo?} Detoby asked excitedly in his ear.

Dipper, as part of the Unspoken Bro Code, looked away until his friend had regained composure. Pretended not to see his friend had been crying (and, conveniently enough, pretended that he himself had not so been worried). “W-what . . . _ahem_ . . . What was it you saw? Anything that can help us?”

**BUT DIFFERENT**

Norman swallowed thickly. Tried to swallow down all the emotions stirring within him, threatening to come spilling out some more. All the pain he had just felt vicariously . . . The sadness, yes, but also the fear of the voice he felt in himself now . . . And the indignation—the _anger_, even the _rage_—that boiled up at the knowledge of what lay just a little deeper in the fog! He thought he could sense where it lay . . . Looking in that direction, he wondered if he could even see it between the shifting wisps of fog—a boy, now an emaciated corpse in an ill-fitting black suit, who had been older than Norman . . . but not by much—or if it was just his imagination . . . Too many emotions to process all at once . . .

“Norm?” Dipper prompted him.

**WHO**

The Medium nodded at that question. “Y-yeah, it can help us. _A lot_.” Turning to meet the brown eyes of his friends, he stated, “I know who the Slender Man is now.”


	25. Chapter 25

“Great!” Mabel exclaimed. “Only . . . how does knowing who Slendy is help us a lot?”

“If we can r-remind him who he is, I think we can break the voice’s hold on him once and for all,” Norman answered earnestly. “Sorta like reminding Aggie who she was helped her let go of all her anger and bitterness, stop t-terrorizing Blithe Hollow, and allowed her to move on . . .”

Confused, Mabel began to ask, “Who—”

Her brother stopped her with a light squeeze of her hand. “Long story. From back in the town where he used to live. I’ll fill you in later.”

Coming out of his thoughts, Norman concluded, “Um, anyway, I th-think it’ll break the voice’s hold on all the children, too. M-_maybe_ . . . But at the very least, the Slender Man can help us fight the voice then—tell us where the voice comes from.”

“That _is_ actually great!” Mabel exclaimed gleefully.

“Heck yeah it is!” Dipper concurred. “Means I’ll also get to take my foot off his knee.”

Sheepishly, Norman said, “There’s . . . _one_ p-problem, though . . .”

{That’s a pleasant change. Normally there are at least _half-a-dozen_,} the Jokergeist quipped.

“I know _who_ he is . . . but I don’t remember what _his_ _name_ is.”

{. . . Darn, that problem’s worth half-a-dozen plus one.}

Mabel conceded, “That . . . does make things a little tricky . . .”

{And the voice is pleased about it, too, Bugaboo,} Detoby reported.

They were all silent for a moment. Dipper eventually muttered, “I’m just . . . going to change legs here real quick . . .”

**MORE WISH COULD SEE**

“Jeez! Relax, dude, I’m putting the other one on your knee. Just trying to not get a cramp here.”

Licking his lips, Norman offered, “I r-remember he was from the first town. In Connecticut—”

{Amity Park?}

“_That’s_ what it was! _Amity_ Park! Thanks, Detoby!”

{Bee-en sir! That’s frog speak for “of course”!}

“He was the one who d-died, like, a year before the others disappeared,” Norman continued. “The one some of the others were obsessed with finding.”

Slowly, Dipper looked over. “The one in the hospital, right? Going deaf and blind?”

Turning his gaze up to the Slender Man’s blank face, Norman replied, “Yeah. That’s him.”

Mabel gasped. “Poor guy . . . Poor Slendy . . .”

“Didn’t you say that kid did _not_ feel like a poltergeist to you?” Dipper asked vaguely. “Am I remembering that right?”

“Y-you are,” Norman admitted, still sheepish. “B-but I don’t think he _is_ a poltergeist. Not really.”

**MORE WISH COULD HEAR **

Mabel cocked her head. “How do you figure? I mean, if he looks like a poltergeist, walks like a poltergeist, and quacks like a poltergeist . . .”

{Quacks like a polter_geese_!} the Jokergeist quipped perfunctorily, even managing to honk his horn though his arms were placed around Norman’s shoulders.

“Gah! Detoby, that was _right in my ear_!” Directing his attention back to Mabel, the Medium explained, “Poltergeists use _their own_ spiritual power. Like, p-powers from when they were still alive, or spiritual power from a r-really strong emotion. That’s what lets them act physically with our world.”

Recalling the Multibear’s words, Dipper quoted, “All energy is the same.”

“Exactly.”

{No, wait . . . I should have said he quacks like _poultrygeese_!}

“Detoby, I swear, if you honk that horn in my ear again . . .” the Medium growled. “Anyway . . . The Slender Man is actually using energy that’s being, like, f-fed to him? Channeled to him, m-maybe? From the voice, I mean. So, y-yeah, he _is_ empowered enough to act physically, but it’s with _someone else’s_ spiritual energy and, like, willpower directing him. Someone else is pulling his strings. The voice.”

{Sooooo I reckon you could say he’s more of—}

“Oh, like a _puppet_geist!” Mabel burst out.

{No fair! I thought of it first!} the Jokergeist pouted.

Soberly, Dipper cast his gaze over his shoulder. Then all around. Gazing at the children crying upon the cold, hard ground within the dome of washed-out light. Maybe even the source of that light. “Let me take a wild guess: That spiritual energy is being drained from them? Basically, the voice is feeding off of them, and giving some of its . . . its _food_ to the Slender Man so he’ll go find _more_ _food_?”

Shuddering, his sister interjected, “More _kids_.”

Just as soberly, Norman nodded. “Y-yeah, I think so. _But_ I d-don’t think the Slender Man is aware of how the voice is using him? He’s just . . . just looking for more friends so he won’t be as l-lonely.”

“So _that’s_ the big ‘Why?’ behind all of this,” Dipper surmised. “A monster . . . eating children.”

{Just like a fairytale,} Detoby commented. {Except no one has cut off their own feet . . . Yet.}

The Medium made a face, but chose neither to transmit that grim analogy nor reply to it.

“Well, eating the children’s spiritual-emotional _energy_,” Dipper specified. “Makes sense, I guess; the answers are usually simple ones. Deep down, at the heart of them.”

Mabel made a face of her own, though hers was more grossed out. “Are _we_ being feeded off of right now?”

“M-maybe,” Norman conceded. But then he held up his hand—the one still holding Dipper’s—and affirmed, “But _we’re_ not alone, so at least we’re not so easy to d-digest.”

“Ewww . . .”

{Ha! With you three, it bit off more than it can chew, Bugaboo!}

“Heh. Yeah, like Detoby said: The voice bit off more than it can ch-chew with us.”

“Wait. Does that mean where we are now is, like, the voice’s _stomach_? Did we just get _vored_?! Double _Ewww_, X, Y, and Z!”

The Jokergeist tried to laugh, {Heh. That . . . That wasn’t bad . . .} But even he couldn’t find much humor in that mental image.

“_Yugh_!” Mabel suddenly shuddered. “That means the Slender Man is, like, the voice’s _tongue_! Like, the voice’s big, long, _frog-like_ tongue that shoots out to catch bugs for it!”

“I don’t like where this puts us in the metaphor,” her brother said flatly.

“Like, we were _tongued_ and then _vored_ by the voice!”

“And I _really_ don’t like _any_ part of this metaphor.”

{Makes two of us.}

“Makes _three_ of us. Um, with Detoby being the second one,” the Medium clarified.

**CAN’T SENSE BUT STILL FEEL LONELINESS**

“Guys, seriously, if we’re already _inside_ the voice—inside its stomach or mouth or whatever—_how_ are we supposed to put a stop to it?” Dipper asked, returning to the pragmatic issue at hand.

Mabel conceded. “That . . . _might_ make kicking it in the mouth a _little_ trickier than before . . .”

“N-nothing’s changed from the plan,” Norman asserted determinedly. “We get through to him—we r-remind him _who he is_—to break the voice’s hold on him. M-maybe on the other kids, too. Then . . . we go from there, I guess . . .” he finished (somewhat less determinedly).

“Yeah, okay, great. _Except_ for the fact that we keep banging our heads against the same wall,” Dipper pointed out, frustration rising in his voice. “We still have _no way_ to communicate with him. _How_ are we supposed to remind him who he is if he still can’t hear us or see us?”

{Wasn’t there a famous dame who was deaf and blind, too?} Detoby wondered. {Can’t remember her name, but she learned to read through her hands?}

“You mean she learned Brail?” the Medium asked, confused (but not as confused as the twins at that apparent non-sequitur). “What does that have to do with—”

{Not Brail. I mean to say that people would write each individual letter in her palm—trace it with their finger—to string together words and sentences,} Detoby explained, even demonstrating for him with his own translucent hands. {And they communicated with her that way.}

“Huh. That could actually work. Good thinking!”

“What could work?” Mabel broke in.

“Detoby thinks we could write in his hand—like, t-trace letters with our fingers to form words and sentences—to talk to him,” the Medium transmitted hopefully.

“Oh! You mean like Kellen Heller?”

{_That’s_ what her name was! _Kellen Heller_!}

“That’s a great idea, Norm-Norm! Er, sorry, I mean Detob-Tob! _Really_ great idea!”

{Mare-sees boo-coo! And _that_ is frog speak for—}

**SO MUCH LONELINESS**

Gritting his teeth against the heavy despondence that filled the atmosphere of the gray waste, Dipper declared, “Worth a try, right? Besides, I don’t think we’ve got a lot of time before the voice wins Slendy back over again. Give it a shot, you two.”

Hopefully, Mabel took the long, pale hand that was on her shoulder and gently turned it over. Until the palm faced upward, as white but as ready for their message as a piece of paper.

**WHAT DO**

“You’ll see!” she whispered excitedly. Then, turning back to the taller boy, she urged him, “Do it. Go on. You’re the Medium, so I think you can get through to him best!”

“Um . . . O-okay. Here goes . . .” Norman muttered bracingly. “H-E-L-L-O . . .” he spelled out aloud while simultaneously spelling it out with his finger.

**WHAT DO**

{He didn’t understand. Try again.}

“Y-yeah. Makes sense; it’s the first time and he doesn’t know what we’re doing. Here goes the second try: H-E-L-L-O . . .”

**WHY DO**

At a loss, Dipper suggested, “Slower, maybe? And harder?”

“H . . . E . . . L . . . L . . . O . . .” Norman tried a third time (slower _and_ harder), tension in his voice and his face and his tracing finger.

Mabel held her breath. Dipper held his breath. Detoby didn’t need to breathe, but he still held his breath, too.

**WHAT DO WHY DON’T UNDERSTAND**

All three Mystery Kids groaned in frustration. Norman even muttered, “Fricative _dam_pen . . .”

For his part, the Jokergeist cocked his head, as if listening. Then his expression darkened, and he murmured, {Oh, go get laryngitis, you worse half of a second-rate ventriloquist act . . .}

“Huh?”

{The voice again. It’s laughing, saying we can’t succeed and we might as well give up. But _applesauce_ to that! We are _not_ giving up!}

“Right,” Norman agreed, though without much conviction.

With a heavy sigh, Dipper admitted, “Guys, I’m completely tapped for ideas. _And_ I’m starting to get a cramp from balancing on one leg this whole time. What if . . . What if we just _can’t_ get through to him? It wasn’t a bad idea, Mabel, but . . . Maybe we’re wasting our time trying to talk to Slendy, and should . . . I dunno. Explore around, see what we find? Might even find where the voice is coming from on our own.”

“But we can’t just _leave_ Slendy like this—more confused than ever!” Mabel protested, even putting her hand protectively in his. “Not after the first friendly contact he’s had in, like, literally _years_! We do, the voice’ll swoop back down on him! Might even make it so we can’t get through to him _at_ _all_!”

Losing patience, her brother snapped back, “You have a better idea?! I’d love to hear it, if so! But right now, it looks like we’re accomplishing exactly _nothing_. And maybe it’s just me, but it feels like it’s getting colder in here, so . . . I’m sorry, but I think we’re running out of time here before the voice . . . before it might figure out how to swoop down on _us_.”

She had no response to that. She simply looked away unhappily.

“I’m sorry,” Dipper repeated quietly and sincerely. “But I just don’t see a way around this wall we keep banging our heads against. And, unlike Slendy here, _I_ actually have eyes, so . . .” he joked, weakly attempting to lighten the mood. “We need to . . . to try _something_ _else_ before it’s too late.”

“Wait . . .” Slowly, his sister turned back to look at him. There was a fire kindling in her gaze. “Say that again.”

{That,} Detoby said reflexively, unable to stop himself.

“Um . . . We need to try something else—”

“Not that. Before that.”

Bewildered, Dipper glanced back at Norman, as if to ask if he understood what she meant. Norman shrugged, then hazarded, “About the w-wall? Not seeing a way around it?”

“Even though Dipping Sauce actually _has eyes_,” Mabel said intently, a braces-glittering grin spreading across her face. Wild—the grin of an artist being struck with inspiration that is either genius or madness (and probably both, honestly). “Unlike Slendy. _But_ _what if_ we can give him some eyes again? And ears, too? Heck, a nose with it!”

“Um, how would we—”

Squeezing the Slender Man’s hand excitedly, she admitted, “Alright, ‘kay, I know this idea is more coocoo-bananas than my first two. But I’m still gonna try it before we give up on talking to Slendy, ‘cause it might just be coocoo-bananas enough to _work_. Especially in a place like _this_!”

**DON’T UNDERSTAND**

“Mabel, what are you—”

“I need both hands for this,” Mabel declared briskly. “Gotta get something from my backpack. Norm-Norm, I need you to hold Slendy’s hand while I do; keep him reassured we’re not going anywhere. Bro-Bro, you’re gonna have to, like, hold my shoulder or something while I work; gotta stay in contact—don’t want the voice to get an opening on me while I work!”

“_What the heck are you even going to do_?!” Dipper demanded.

“First, I’m getting my backpack off!” she replied, pulling her hand away from the Slender Man and shrugging that loop off her shoulder.

**WHERE GO**

“Shhh . . . Shhhhh . . .” Mabel whispered reassuringly, even squeezing his hand again. “Don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere. Just need to get something. Only be a minute. Norm-Norm, _really_ need you to take his hand now for me.”

“Uh, right!” Norman both replied and complied at once.

**WHAT DO **

“Dipdop?” she wheedled, leaning against her brother.

Exasperated, her brother insisted, “You could just _tell_ _us_ what you’re trying, y’know.”

“No time! Don’t make me call you ‘Dipstick’!”

Grumbling, but still being exceedingly careful to maintain contact with her the whole time, Dipper maneuvered his hand so that it was on her free shoulder.

“Thanks, Bro-Bro! You’re the best-best!” Then, with another shrug, Mabel had the backpack off and swung it around in front of her. She instantly began rummaging through it with hyper purpose.

Dubiously eying the backpack, her brother asked, “You maybe . . . planning to trap him in the silver mirror? Cut him off from the voice’s influence?”

“Not a bad idea,” she commented lightly. “We can use it as a backup if my idea doesn’t work.”

“What else do you even have in there? You said you only had glitter-smoke bombs, the mirror, and the holy water canteen.”

“No,” she countered with the same wild grin. “I said the stuff in here _includes but is not limited to those_. But I do have _something else_ that might be useful . . . right here!” And with that, she pulled out a thick book. Practically a tome.

**WHERE GO**

Because he was still holding tightly to both his friend and his sister, Dipper still could not facepalm. But in that moment, he wanted to. He wanted to so, so badly. “. . . Is that a book of _stickers_?”

“Not just _any_ book of stickers! This is H.P. Loveartsandcrafts’ famous ‘Omnibus of Stickers’!” Mabel proclaimed, proudly thumping the hard cover. “If the sticker’s not in here, you don’t need it!”

{What is a sticker?} Detoby asked the Medium. {Is this a book about prickly-seed plants?}

“Let me get this straight,” Dipper asked, more exasperated than ever before. “You think _a book of stickers_ is a _useful_ resource when facing _eldritch terror-horrors from beyond our dimension_?”

“What, you _don’t_?” she countered, already flipping through the pages in all seriousness.

With a sigh, her brother murmured, “I don’t even know why I’m surprised at this point . . .”

Breaking in, Norman asked, “You’re p-planning to give him . . . _sticker_ _eyes_ to see with?”

“And sticker ears to hear with, too!”

{But what even is a sticker?} Detoby persisted.

“This is _insane_!” Dipper burst out. “How is putting stickers on the Slender Man’s face supposed to help him see and hear?! It’s just a little picture with glue on the back for being . . . being _silly_ and _fun_!”

“And_ that_, Detoby, is what a sticker is,” the Medium answered over his shoulder.

“It’s not a _real_ eye, or whatever, Mabel! Even if it _was_ a real one, it isn’t _the_ _Slender_ _Man’s_ eye! People can’t just use other people’s organs!”

“Transplants,” Mabel riposted lightly, now perusing a half-used page of stickers of body parts.

“Those are _medical_! They involve _actual, physical organs_ being actually, physically implanted _into someone else’s actual, physical body_, not pictures of ones being slapped on them!”

“Slendy is already dead, right Norman?” she rhetoricized.

Though unwilling to get involved in this argument, the taller boy did concede, “Well . . . yeah.”

“So he wouldn’t really be helped by actual, physical eyes, anyway, would he? What with his actual, physical body being dead?”

“Well . . . no, I don’t think so.”

**COME BACK CAN’T SENSE**

“But he _would_ be helped by positive emotions, right? Like, friendship energy, or whatever? Love? Compassion? Caring?” Mabel asked incisively. “It would help him if someone other than the voice gave him some energy to use, right? Like, say, if _we_ gave him vision energy through a sticker?”

{Oh hohoho!} Detoby crowed, catching on. {Nerts! She’s saying you three can try pulling this puppetgeist’s strings, too! The bearcat’s wits are sharper than her claws!}

“That’s . . . That’s not a _thing_, vision energy . . .” Dipper groused, though more out of ingrained argumentativeness than anything else. It was just a contrary habit, rather than an actual objection.

“Genius . . .” Norman breathed, awestruck at the idea. “The Multibear _did_ say that all energy’s the same, and . . . and _I know_ spirits usually derive energy to manifest from their strong emotions . . . And if Slendy’s already doing it using the voice’s energy, why couldn’t he do it with ours? It could work, Mabel, it could really work! In th-_theory_, at least. But it _is_ worth a try,” he prompted his best friend.

**LONELINESS AGAIN**

The behatted boy let out a sigh. “Yeah, I guess . . .” he finally yielded. “I mean, I’ve seen _more_ ridiculous things happen in Gravity Falls than us making magic (or whatever) sticker eye-prosthetics for a not-technically-a-poltergeist. Can’t actually think of any _right_ _now_, but . . . If the Author of the Journal is right and Cursed Doors do lead into, like, pocket dimension type things (sorta like the Multibear’s cave), well . . . _maybe_ we can—what was it the Mulibear said he does inside his cave?—bend reality a little ourselves here, too? Enough to help him see and hear again? Why not try, right, even if it _is_ ridiculous?”

“Oh my freakin’ gosh . . .” Norman groaned. “How’d I n-not see it before?”

“See what?”

“The Multibear’s cave. And Aggie’s . . . p-place, or whatever. Where we are is _just_ like them.”

Detoby glanced questioningly around at the washed-out light emanating from the circles of starved-looking children—at the darkness and the fog which dominated this gray waste {Uh . . . You sure about that? I know nothing of this Aggie, but the cave did not exactly resemble this purgatory.}

“I mean, in a way,” the Medium clarified. “There’s the same, like . . . buzzing tingle in the air and the same . . . like, wonky feel to everything. The directions, and such. It’s just harder to recognize them with the cold and the fog distracting us, and no solid walls or . . . solid _anything_, really, to gage against.”

Dipper glanced back over his shoulder at something, then added, “I guess that explains the TV and the Wii that are working even though they’re not plugged into anything. They’re just like his iPad.”

Mabel looked up from her book of stickers disbelievingly. “The Multibear has an _iPad_?”

“Yeah. A hiker, um, left it behind,” Dipper said, not technically lying. “Anyway, how we doing this thing with your stickers? You have a method in mind for your madness of channeling ‘vision energy’ into them? We going to try some more blood magic tonight, or what?”

{_Blood magic_?} Detoby repeated incredulously. {_More_ blood magic?}

Despite the queasiness that crept into his stomach, the Medium promised, “I’ll explain l-later.”

**ALWAYS LONELINESS NEVER STOPS**

With a shrug, the besweatered girl admitted, “Honestly, I was thinking just plain ol’ good vibes would do the trick, y’know? Like, each of us focusing some positive energy into the stickers, and then all of us putting them on him together.”

Her brother heaved a sigh so heavy it was practically a groan. “For real, Mabel?”

“Will that . . . not work?” Norman asked.

“No, it’ll probably work fine, magic-wise. It’s just . . . execution-wise, it’s sloppy and real sappy. Most basic kind of ‘magic’ there is, and the inexact craft of it offends my sensibilities.”

In a stage whisper, Mabel said, “He’s a spell snob.” Then, in a normal voice, she announced, “Found the perfect one to start!”

“Great,” Dipper snarked. “Let’s start this insanity which theoretically isn’t but still actually is.”

Peeling the sticker out, Mabel placed it gently to her lips for a moment. It seemed she even whispered something into it, though it was impossible to say what it was—only she could know for sure. Then, with almost uncharacteristic solemnity, she placed it to her heart for another moment . . . Something seemed to radiate from her as she did, some emotion more than mere calmness or warmth. Whatever emotion it was, the Slender Man’s featureless face turned back towards her. As if to look questioningly into her face . . .

**SENSE DIFFERENT**

When she had finished, she looked up and pressed the sticker against her twin brother’s heart. “Be positive: love, compassion, caring, friendship, that kinda stuff. That’s the kinda energy we need.”

“What are we, _hippies_?”

“Dipstick, we’re from _Piedmont_. Which is basically _San Francisco_. So, yeah, municipally we’re pretty much required to be hippies. And if it’ll save our butts and everyone else’s butts here, we’ll be cowboy-cavemen-beatnik-vampires, too. Now stop being a grumpy-grump, and put some positive energy into this sticker before I smack you with a freakin’ omnibus.”

“That’s hardly a _positive_ thing to say.”

“I’ll _smile_ while I do it. Now focus on not being a grumpy-grump for once in your life.”

{They never quit it, do they?}

“Nope, but at least they do it lovingly,” the Medium replied.

Dipper cast a sidelong glare at them (or at least at Norman), before grumbling, “Oh, _fine_ . . .” Closing his eyes in concentration, he then intoned a mantra of, “Love, compassion, caring, friendship . . . Love, compassion, caring, friendship . . . Love . . . Compassion . . . Caring . . . Friendship . . .”

{Is it just me, or does it feel . . . different? Better?} Detoby asked in mild wonder. {Is it . . . Can it truly be working?}

The Medium only nodded once in response. It had to be working, for the Slender Man was once again turning in Dipper’s direction. His head cocked ever so slightly, as if looking curiously at Dipper . . .

**SENSE DIFFERENT AGAIN**

After a moment more, Mabel said, “Thanks, Bro-Bro, for (finally) taking this seriously.”

“Yeah, well, if it’s either this ridiculousness or be slowly digested, I guess it’d be _more_ ridiculous of me not to give it a genuine try.”

{Hear hear!}

Mabel then pressed the sticker against Norman’s heart. “Your turn. Give it a try with him, Detoby; we need all the positive energy we can get.”

{Aye-aye for the eye-eye!} the Jokergeist affirmed, swinging around the Medium’s neck to bring his silent heart as close to the sticker as possible.

“R-right . . .” Norman shut his eyes against the awkwardness of Detoby’s bulbous nose mere inches from his own, Detpby’s bristly moustache mere inches from his lips. “Um. Right . . . Love . . . Compassion . . . Caring . . . Friendship . . .”

Love . . . Grandma, the rest of his family, too (he supposed) . . . The Mystery Shack, the Twins . . . Mabel and Dipper . . . especially Dipper . . . Holding Dipper’s hand, something which was practically normal at this point (at least it was here in this gray waste, so there was a silver lining right there) . . .

Compassion . . . The children in there all crying on the cold, hard ground, wanting to go home . . . All the people who had been looking for them, some for years by this point . . . The Slender Man, actually just a kid who had been abandoned and tricked by some monster, needing to move on . . . Loneliness that needed to be healed—that they would heal no matter what it took . . .

Caring . . . The ghosts who had befriended him, especially Mister Whitehawk and Doctor Pincus and Grandmother Chiu and Detoby . . . The ghosts who had defended them from what had seemed a horrifying monster . . . Grandma again, who had done the same . . .

Friendship . . . Neil . . . Detoby and the other ghosts, but especially Detoby . . . The Twins again, always the Twins . . . Mabel and Dipper . . . especially Dipper . . . Still holding Dipper’s hand . . . The cure to the Slender Man’s loneliness . . . The cure to the abducted children’s loneliness . . . The cure to his own loneliness . . . The cure to all loneliness that ever was and ever would be . . .

Though Norman could not see it with his eyes shut, he knew the Slender Man was turning again. Turning back towards him, now, as if to look fixedly at him . . . Norman could just feel the Slender Man’s intentness, his curiosity . . . perhaps even his _hope_ centering on him now . . .

**WHAT DO DIFFERENT SENSE DIFFERENT WHY**

“Okay, I can _definitely_ feel the energy—_our_ energy,” Dipper said reverently. “It feels . . . _good_.”

Softly but assuredly, Mabel declared, “Yep. So now or never. You three get your hand-holding hands on top of mine, alright? We’re gonna do this together. Keep thinking positive. You ready?”

“Positive_ly_,” her brother murmured.

“That’s the spirit!”

“No, I mean . . . Oh, never mind . . .” Dipper sighed, deciding to worry about grammar later. Instead, he raised up the hand that still held tight to Norman’s so they could both back hers. And, though unseen by him and her, Detoby reached around Norman’s shoulder to add his to theirs.

With her free hand, Mabel tugged with gentle importunity on the shoulder of the Slender Man’s ragged suit. Slowly, he turned to eyelessly gaze at her. The full blankness of his face was towards her. And then she—with a friendly little “boop!”—placed the sticker where one of his eyes should have been.

**DO WHAT DON’T UNDERSTAND**

Breathlessly, the Mystery Kids plus the Jokergeist watched while the Slender Man gingerly touched at the bit of paper on his face. He seemed confused by it. Perhaps by its well-wishing spirit or perhaps by its adhesive compound (since both were laid thickly upon it), and perhaps even by the simple fact that it was something foreign unexpectedly placed right on his face; that would, after all, confuse most anyone. Either way, though, they watched and they waited to see what would happen next.

**IS WHAT WHY PUT HERE**

“. . . N-nothing’s happening,” Norman eventually pointed out, though such was obvious.

“Hmm . . . Maybe if I’d put it on the _other_ side of his face?” Mabel mused. “I guess it is _technically_ on the wrong side . . .”

“Yeah, maybe _that’s_ the problem,” Dipper allowed. Then he snapped, “Or _maybe_ the problem’s that you used a flippin’ _Eye of Horus_ sticker! That’s not even meant to be a _seeing_ eye! It’s a hieroglyphic talisman for, like, royal power and protection! Why didn’t you just use a _normal_ eye sticker?!”

{So these sticker doodads do _not_ normally look Egyptian?} Detoby inquired of the Medium, genuinely nonplussed.

“Well, I figured Slendy might wanna look cool and fashionable after all this time being, like, blank and boring,” Mabel retorted. “Y’know, wear some sweet eyeliner, or something. I know _I_ would.”

Dipper repeated through gritted teeth, “Wear? Some sweet? Eyeliner?”

“Besides, doesn’t he need some power and protection from the voice, anyway? So win-win.”

“Win? Win?”

“G-guys, c’mon,” Norman tried to appeal to them. “There’s no need to f-fight. It won’t help!”

“I’m not _fighting_ with her,” Dipper contended, almost irately. “I’m just _telling_ her that her choice of sticker makes _zero_ sense for a _number_ of reasons! It’s the _most_ ridiculous part of an idea that was already the _most_ ridiculous whole idea ever, and I regret wasting time even pretending to believe it could ever wor—”

**SEE**

Four sets of eyes immediately snapped back up to a single one. Or rather, what should have only been the stylized image of a single one printed on a thin strip of paper, but which was suddenly acting like a real eye: blinking, narrowing, widening, glancing back and forth; even the pupil (a spectral gleam against what had become a dried-ink black iris) was dilating and contracting as it focused now on this, now on that. It was still very obviously a sticker (two-dimensional and almost cartoonishly rendered), but nevertheless was now extremely animated. So was the Slender Man, and his animation was all of a sudden almost palpable in the atmosphere around them. Surprise, excitement, and hope!

**SEESEESEESEESEE**

“. . . You were saying?” Mabel asked her brother, admirably restraining her smugness to a level of understated I-told-you-so-ness (when she could justifiably have permitted herself a level of crowing you-will-never-be-allowed-to-live-this-down-and-I-will-see-it-engraved-on-your-headstone-ity).

“. . . This is total _BS_, and you _know_ _it_ as well as I do,” he sulked. “I’m almost _angry_ it’s working.”

**SEEYOUSEEYOUSEEYOUSEEYOUSEEYOU**

{I can’t believe it . . . Horus must be the one true god, and Bertie-boy is going to be so crushed when we tell him he has to convert,} the Jokergeist quipped.

The Medium couldn’t help but burst out, “Ha!”

“Traitor,” Dipper sulked some more.

“N-no, not that! It was something Detoby—”

**HOW WHY SEE YOU WHAT DID**

“Wanna see even better?” Mabel offered, grinning from ear to ear. “We got more stick—”

**WHO**

“I’m Mabel. This is my brother, Wrong McShortpants. And the guy with the whoosh hair is—”

**CAN’T HEAR YOU SEE TALK BUT CAN’T HEAR YOU**

Turning back to the others, the besweatered girl affirmed, “I think he needs an ear next.” Then, she peeled an ear sticker from the same page of her omnibus and repeated the earlier process again with the help of Wrong McShortpants (AKA “Dipper”), Norman, and Detoby. Next, she beckoned the Slender Man back down to their level again and—“boop!”—placed it on the side of his head.

After a moment, Norman tentatively asked, “C-can you . . . hear me?” And the Slender Man turned to now look at him—_actually look at him_—through his sticker eye.

**HEAR YOU**

“Ha! Hahaha! It really is working!”

“Even if it _shouldn’t_,” Dipper grumbled, earning himself a drill in the ribs from his sister’s elbow. “_What_? And did you have to give him an ear with dangly bangle earrings?”

“Uh, chyeah?”

“I’m Norman! This is Dipper and Mabel! They’re brother and sister, which why they’re _always_ sniping at each other! We’re here to help you! You, and all the children here!”

**NORMAN DIPPER MABEL BEHIND YOU WHO IS**

{You can see me, too?} Detoby asked in astonishment. {I’m Tobias Determined—technically the First, I suppose—but you can call me “Detoby” if you like!}

**DETOBY**

“Fascinating,” Dipper commented to himself. “He, too, can see the dead. Likely because he—”

His sister drilled him in the ribs again. “Maybe not the best time to bring _that_ up.”

**WHAT SAY**

“That we think we should get you another eye and ear to go with the first ones we gave you!” Mabel covered quickly, but with genuine excitement. “How’s that sound to you? You like that idea?”

**PLEASE YES**

“Alrighty!” And without a moment’s hesitation, she and the other three repeated the process twice more. Now analogous to the Eye of Horus sticker was a Sheikah Eye sticker (both blinking over the gleam of a spectral pupil) that would have made even Link himself go, “_Hra_?!”; on either side of his head was an ear sticker, one with a sapphire earring dangling from the lobe, and the other shaped like either a Vulcan ear or an Elf ear (the debate as to which is which rages on at Comic Cons to this day; there may never be a final resolution). “There you go! How’s that?”

**GOOD SEE GOOD HEAR BUT NOT TALK**

“Oh, would you like a mouth, too? We can get you one of those. No problem!” Mabel declared, cracking the omnibus back open.

Looking over her shoulder, Dipper advised, “Let’s at least give the poor guy a normal-looking mouth. Don’t give him one like—”

“Ooo! This right here will be fun!”

“Mabel, I swear on Moses’ sacred yamaka, if you choose that one—”

“Peel-peel-peel!”

“_Gosh darn it, Mabel_!”

“Bro-Bro, just shut up and give it some positive energy with me, Norm-Norm, and Detob-Tob.”

{I’m with Dipper,} Detoby protested, though it was purely symbolic protest. {That one seems . . . a bit salacious to me—or “salicksious” maybe I should say.}

“Don’t you dare honk that in my ear again.”

With a sigh, Dipper relented. And, a moment later, a sticker featuring the bright red lips and tongue of the Rolling Stones was booped onto the Slender Man’s face. Much to Dipper’s unnerving, those shiny lips (as if freshly coated with the most garish of lipstick) began to move. Very stiffly, trying to flex out years of atrophied disuse. The tongue swept out to lick over them and the cartoonishly white teeth behind them. Experimentally. Rediscovering the full dimensions—even if represented by a two-dimensional piece of adhesive paper—which the Mystery Kids’ positive energy had restored to him.

And then, for the first time since at least 2008, the being now dubbed the Slender Man spoke. “**Ca . . . Caaaaannn you . . . hhhhhear meee?**”

The Mystery Kids plus one cheered in delight, and Dipper most boisterously of all. He even said, “Loud and clear!”

“**Thu-annn-kuh . . . you ffffor the . . . mmmou-thu . . . ear-suh . . . eye-suh . . .**” the Slender Man articulated with difficulty. “**Been s-so looong sssin-suh pee-pull . . . cuh-could . . . taaaalk to mmmme**.”

“You’re welcome!” Mabel lilted. “Anything for a friend!”

That statement seemed to pierce him to the heart. With incredulous joy, he asked “**_Ffffriend_**?”

“You betcha!”

“**Mmmy . . . other fffriends . . . Always cuh-cryyyyying . . . Ca . . . cannn always ffffeel it . . . Nnnever stu-stop it . . . I trrrry to . . . mmmmake them hhhha-happy, but . . . Always crrrrrrying . . . You’re nnnnnot cry-ing, th-though . . . Wwwhy?**”

Clearing his throat, Norman called the Slender Man’s attention to what he had to say. “Actually, we think there might be t-two reasons for that. We’ve got each other—we _know_ we’ve got each other,” he added, showing off the hand that held Dipper’s. “So the v-voice can’t bring us down like . . . like you and all the others kids here. Can’t drown us in l-loneliness. Can’t make us forget who we are . . . And that’s the second reason, actually. We still know who we are.”

“**I duh-don’t unnnnderrrrssstan-duh . . . Vvvvoice . . . drrrown us in LONELINESS? Bbbuh . . . But the vvvvv-voice is my ffffrien-duh . . . Keeeeps the LONELINESS awwwway.”**

Norman opened his mouth to counter that tragically naïf belief, but Dipper sensibly cut in first, “Don’t worry about _that_ just now. What matters right now is . . . Who are you? What’s your name?”

The Slender Man’s sticker eyes furrowed in confusion. “**My nnnnnae-muh?**”

“Yeah, silly!” Mabel said encouragingly. “Can’t be proper friends if we don’t know your name!”

“**Myyyy name . . .**” The Slender Man concentrated for a moment, and then wondered aloud, “**Wwwwhat _was_ my nnnname?**”

“C-can you remember? It’s important. You . . . You _have_ to remember,” Norman insisted.

Ponderously, the Slender Man laid his free hand under his chin. “**I hhhhad . . . a nnname.”**

“Yes! Yes, you did! You were a _person_ before all this! _A regular person_! Do you remember who you were?”

After a long moment, the Slender Man shook his head. “**I . . . I cuh-can’t . . . rrrememmmber**!”

Giving the long, thin hand he held a squeeze, Norman urged him, “Please think. It’s important.”

As if in dismayed consternation, the Slender Man straightened up—straightened away from the Medium. “**I t-_ttttold_ you . . . I _ccccan’t_ remmmmember . . .**”

In response to his friend’s helpless gaze in his direction, Dipper reasoned, “What if we helped? We can help you remember; we know some stuff about you. Like, you used to live in Amity Park.”

“In Connecticut!” Norman added hopefully.

The Slender Man looked away. Almost evasively “**. . . Nnnno. Duh-don’t remmmmember . . .**”

“Well—and this isn’t a _happy_ fact, so keep in mind that I’m sorry for bringing it up—you were also in the hospital for a long time,” Mabel tried apologetically.

Gently, Dipper added, “You had a disease that was . . . Sorta sporadically, it was making you go deaf and blind.”

“**Duh-don’t rrrrremember**.”

{Maybe try reminding him about his kith and kin?} Detoby suggested.

“His what now?”

{Blood and buddies. You know, Bugabeau, his family and friends.}

“Oh! Y-yeah! You had family and friends,” Norman persisted. “We know some of their names were Dash, Paulina, Sam, Tucker, and Dan—”

**NOT FRIENDS**

For a moment, everything around them froze. The crying children, their misty breath in the air, the roiling fog. And then, like a sudden atmospheric depression, that moment fell away in a great ripple of cold and melancholy.

“**Th-they _wwweren’t_ . . . mmmmy _friends_**,” the Slender Man said, actually speaking aloud again through his incongruously bright, red sticker of a mouth. The corners of it were even turned down, too. Dejected was his tone. “**Thu . . . They a-bbbbandoned mmmm-me . . . _Fffforgot_ abou-tuh me . . . and wwwhen I nee-eeded them mmmmost . . .**”

After a moment of quiet, Norman surmised, “So you do remember them.”

“**I rrrrremem-ber . . . b-being alllllone . . . wwwhen they stu . . . sto-pped commmming . . . Wwwishing they’d learn hhhow it fffeels, too . . . Wwwhy you mmmmaking . . . m-me remmmember all this? It _hhhhhurts_ . . .**”

Mabel patted his hand empathetically. There was so much she wanted to say, but all she could manage was, “Awww . . . Poor Slendy . . .”

“**. . . Wwwwhat did you ccccall me**?”

“Slendy.” She explained, “We didn’t know what to call you, back when we thought you were, like, some sorta ghost-demon-monster that was trying to kill us or something, so we stated calling you ‘The Slender Man’. And ‘Slendy’ is just a cute nickname version of that, because friends give each other cute nicknames.”

Baffled now, he asked, “**Wwwwhy would . . . you th-think I ww-wanted to kuh . . . _kill_ you?**”

“Heh! Hard as it might be to believe now that we’re here talking to each other all friendly like, you were _pretty_ terrifying when you were chasing us just a little while ago, big guy,” Dipper chuckled.

“Well, not exactly _you_,” Norman interjected purposefully. “See, the v-voice kept, like, talking into our minds. Making us feel _t-terrible_ things, too. Things that aren’t true, but it was so easy to believe because the voice kept saying them so convincingly. F-felt like they were my own thoughts, even, sometimes . . . About how we’re alone and no one cares . . . How we have no r-_real_ friends—everyone just pities us, but secretly w-wishes we’d just, like, go away . . . About how _you_ were coming to get us.”

“While making a _really_ spooky fog, too,” Mabel added quickly. “Can’t forget that spooky fog that started after I . . . I, uh, opened the door—_no_, after the voice _tricked_ _me_ into opening the door,” she corrected herself after seeing her brother’s gently reproving look. “Anyway, can’t forget that spooky fog, since it really contributed to the ambiance of, like, _depression_ and _doom_ the voice wanted to create.”

{It’s doing it now, too,} Detoby stated matter-of-factly. {Why do you think your friends here keep blubbering more than a blue whale? Why do you think it keeps becoming gradually colder, too?}

“**_Wwwwhat_**?” the Slender Man faltered disbelievingly.

The Medium repeated that statement (minus the marine biology quip), for the twins’ benefit . . . and for emphasis, then said, “It’s talking right into each of their minds right now, t-tearing them down.”

“**Nnnn-_no_ . . . It _cccan’t_ be like th-that . . .**”

“That voice is why _everyone_ is stuck here. Including _us_ and _you_,” Norman asserted. Gently, for he knew it was a hard truth to hear, yet firmly, for he knew it was truth that _had_ _to_ _be_ _heard_. “That voice is why _everyone_ here is m-miserable. Including _us_ and _you_. That voice is why _everyone_ here is, like, wasting away. Look at those kids, Slendy, how skinny and st-starved they look—_it’s literally eating away at them, Slendy_! Including _us_ and _you_.”

“**_Nnno_! It’s mmmmy friend! The onnnnnly friend who . . . sssstood with me! Hhhhelped me!**”

“Then why did it take your sight—even your _eyes_, man—instead of fixing them?” Dipper asked. “Why did it take your hearing and your ears? Like, we fixed them _just_ _now_ for you—someone we hadn’t even met. _Easily_, too. The voice could’ve done that _years ago_ . . . _But_ _it_ _didn’t_.”

{Good point, that,} Detoby chorused. {It _could_ have healed you, but it did _not_. It _chose_ not to.}

Shaking his gaunt head in denial, the Slender Man faltered, “**It cccc_an’t_ be like th-_that_ . . .**”

Still patting his hand comfortingly, Mabel very soberly stated, “Slendy, the voice took your _face_. And your _name_. And it, like, overshadowed you with this, like, aura of doom and terror and depression _so no one would ever even wanna come near you again_. Why would a _friend_ do something so mean and horrible to you? Why would a _friend_ isolate you like that?”

The Slender Man had no answer. He simply closed his sticker eyes and shook his head.

Completing the circle, Norman laid his hand back on top of the long, thin one. “I’m sorry, but . . . The voice is _not_ your friend. It’s been lying to you this whole time; isolating you and making you think that you were completely alone; hurting _you_; using you to _hurt_ _others_ . . . For years . . . I’m s-_so_ _sorry_,” he repeated compassionately. “I know hearing this must hurt, but . . . you can help us stop that hurt now for good. You can help us save _everyone_ here . . . Including _us_ and _you_.”

“**I . . . I jjjjuh-just can’t . . . It’s theeee only fffffriend who’s b-been with me all th-this tiiiime.”**

“Oh, come _on_!” Dipper growled in frustration.

But Mabel, for her part, looked up into the Slender Man’s mismatched, sticker-based eyes. She met them with her brown ones, so warm and so kind. More than sympathetic, more than empathetic, more than compassionate. All three at once. “Slendy, listen to me, please. Because I get it. Okay? I get it; I felt like you did at the beginning. Miserable. Lonely. Abandoned. And . . . that hurt. It hurt so, _so_ much, I wanted other people to feel like that, too—to feel just as bad as I did. They do, too, because the voice sent you to them. All of them. All the kids I named? They’re here, feeling like I did, because of that . . . No, because of _all three of us_, actually: me, you, and _especially_ the voice.”

“**Wwwhere**?”

Nodding in one direction, she answered, “One’s over there. Her name’s Pacifica. Next to her is . . . actually, I don’t remember his/her name, but he/she’s known as ‘the Grand Goth’. And over there, with a group of some older kids, is Gideon . . . I can’t see any of the others through the fog, but I know they’re around here somewhere. Just like I know your friends—the first ones you bought—are around here, too. Along with all the others from a bunch of different towns . . . So, let me ask you something. Do you think I feel _happier_ because they’re here now, being miserable and lonely like I was?”

“**. . . Nnnn-no, you’re not . . . th-that kin-duh . . . of perrrson,”** the Slender Man answered sadly.

“You’re right, I don’t. Like, not at all. I feel really _crappy_ about it. And I’m sure you do, too, ‘cause there’s no way you’re the kinda jerk-butt who _only_ ever wants people to be miserable and lonely. Unlike the voice,” she added definitively. “Like, you went out there looking for kids _who needed a friend_ like you did! So they wouldn’t have to be all alone anymore! You’re, like, _a good person_, Slendy!”

“Th-that’s right!” Norman concurred.

“Totally!” Dipper concurred. “Just a little misguided is all, because of the voice.”

“**I . . . Um . . . I d-dunno . . .**”

“Slendy, you _are_,” Mabel affirmed emphatically. “So you already get that it’s, like, time to stop all of this. This _loneliness_, I mean. Which _the voice_ is trying to keep going for its own selfish reasons, FYI, but which _we and you_ are trying so hard to stop. For these kids, for ourselves, and _especially_ for you . . . Please help us stop all this loneliness, Slendy,” she begged quietly.

“Please, man. Help them, us, yourself . . . We all wanna go home,” Dipper implored softly.

{Please help. It hurts all of us to be here,} Detoby pleaded gently.

“Please . . . Please help?” Norman asked last of all, squeezing the pale hand that he held.

The Slender Man looked away, far off into the darkness beyond the washed-out light and the roiling fog, for a long, long moment. Then, so slowly, he came back around to the Mystery Kids plus one. “**. . . Hhhhow . . . cannnn I h-hhhelp?**”

****

“**. . . Hhhhow . . . cannnn I h-hhhelp?**”

With a small, gratified smile to his sister and his best friend, Dipper replied, “The way we see it, the key to getting home for _all_ of us—these kids, us, _and_ you—is first breaking the voice’s hold on you. Once we do that, Norman thinks, we can find where the voice is coming from. We find where it’s hiding, and we think we can _shut it up_ for good. Plus, that’ll probably be where the Cursed Door is, so we’ll _also_ find our way out of this pocket dimension type thing and _back_ to reality!”

“Killing two birds with one stone,” Mabel chimed in. “Because _screw_ birds. Think they’re so great just because _they_ can fly, and they’re basically modern-day dinosaurs . . .” she muttered to herself.

“But to do that . . . To b-break the voice’s hold on you . . .” Norman said bracingly. “You n-need to remember _who you are_, too. Your _name_. Your _identity_. Your . . . Your p-_past_.”

With sticker eyes downcast, the Slender Man asked, “**Wwwhy would . . . th-that hhhhelp? Onnnly cuh . . . caus-es pain . . . p-pain and LONELINESS . . .**”

“Y’see, th-_that’s_ the thing. _That right there_ is the thing,” Norman countered. Emotion inflected his voice, and it grew more impassioned with every sentence he spoke—more ardent in his compassion for this lost soul, more ardent in his anger at the malevolent sentience that had used and abused him. “There isn’t _just_ pain and loneliness in your past. There’s so m-much more to it—so much more _to_ _you_! You’ve got good memories and happy ones, too. But the voice has made you forget them! It’s st-_stolen_ those memories from you, and stolen those parts _of who you are_ with them, so that now all that’s left of you is . . . _this_,” he said, gesturing at the inhumanly tall, inhumanly thin form in the tattered black suit. “It’s stolen your . . . your h-_humanity_, so that now you’re just, like, n-nothing but loneliness any more . . . Something it can m-manipulate into doing the same to other kids, too.”

“**. . . I’mmmm not . . . that imm-mmportant . . . I d-don’t matter that mmmmuch . . .**”

“Slendy, _yes_, you _absolutely_ are!” Mabel insisted sincerely.

{Those aren’t _your_ thoughts, but the propaganda it’s broadcasting to you to lower your morale,} Detoby stated. {I saw strategies like that all the time in the war. It’s why us bayonets weren’t allowed by the tinboxes.}

“**. . . Wwwhat?**”

“You’ve always been, like, the _key_ to all this!” Mabel continued. “It needs _you_ to make it work, and so _you_ have the power to make it _not_ work anymore! You, and _only_ you! You’re the most important person in this room! This . . . infinite, foggy, room-type thing . . . Well, y’know what I mean.”

“**. . . W-_what_?**”

“_You_ _matter_, man,” Dipper chorused. “You matter so much to everyone here. To us. And we . . . We wanna be your _real_ friends. We wanna know the _real_ you. So, please . . . Can you help us by remembering who you really are?”

For a long moment, the Slender Man said nothing. After a moment, he turned and he looked off through the washed-out light and the swirling fog towards one particular circle of abducted children. Perhaps the ones he had first brought here? The ones who had been his friends in life, back before . . . before the hospital? “**It . . . _hhhurts_ . . . h-hurts so mmmuch to remmmember . . .**”

Norman gave his hand a squeeze (and, coincidentally, so did Mabel). “I know,” he said. “I know. But the only way the memories will ever st-stop hurting . . . is to stop running from the pain. Let yourself f-feel it, then move on from it. Your li—er, your _existence_—and your identity . . . they’re more than just these painful memories. Like, they _are_ a p-part of you . . . but they’re only _one_ part of you.”

{Asides, resisting the memories seems to be causing you plenty more of its own pain anyways (and us and everyone else, though that’s as immaterial as I currently am), so you might as well try what the NorMedium is suggesting,} Detoby commented. {Can’t hurt any more than it does already, can it?}

“**. . . I guh-guess nnnnot . . .**” the Slender Man replied, though unenthusiastically. With a sigh, he nodded. “**Guh-go onnn and rrremind mmm-me . . . who I www-was . . .**”

“You lived in Amity Park, Connecticut,” Dipper reiterated. “And you had to go to the hospital for a long time. Because you had some sorta disease that was making you go deaf and blind.”

“You had friends before then. What were their names again, Norm-Norm?” Mabel asked.

But it was the Slender Man who answered. “**Tuh . . . Tuck-er . . . annnd Danny and Sss-Sam . . . Pauliiiina and Dash . . . There was l-llllots of ‘em, but . . . but _they_ wwwere . . . my cl-closest friends . . . B-but they . . .**”

“Go on, Slendy. Let it all out,” Mabel tenderly encouraged him.

“**They st-stopped . . . commmming . . . to see me . . . Annnd my ffff-family, too . . . Like I . . . didn’t mmmmatter to ‘em anymmmore . . .**” the Slender Man recounted sorrowfully. “**I nuh-know seeing me like th-that . . . mmmust’ve hurt, but . . . but wwwhaat about how much it hhhhurt _mmme_? They just . . . lefffft me . . . to _die_ . . . _allllllone_ . . .**”

“You deserved better than that,” Dipper concurred and meant it. “If all of it hadn’t happened . . . What I mean to say is, you had a life. Hopes and dreams. Some with them—your friends—no doubt, and some just for yourself. What would you have done? What did you want to do in life?”

“**Wwwhat did I . . . wwwant to do?**” the Slender Man repeated, as though this were the most unexpectable question in the multiverse.

“Yeah. What were your hopes and dreams?”

Slowly, testing the veracity of every syllable as it left his two-dimensional mouth, he answered, “**I wwwanted to . . . to play . . . bbb-basketbbb-ball? Yyyeah . . . _Yeah_! I . . . I _loved_ basketball so much! I wwwas gonna . . . gonna jjjoin the high school t-team . . . with _Dash_ . . .**” he added, more melancholy than even before. “**I wwwas gonna . . . gonna sssspend . . . _every_ d-day with him . . .**”

Mabel positively perked up at that, her matchmaking senses tingling. “_Oh_? Sounds like _maybe_ you really _liked_ this Dash.”

“What?” Dipper and Norman and Detoby asked all at once, though in different tones.

“**. . . Yyyeah, I g-guess so . . .**” the Slender Man said sheepishly, embarrassed yet also pleased to talk about it. “**Nnno point p-pretending now, nnnot here, is there? I evvven . . . No, it’s ssstupid . . .”**

“C’mon, you can tell us,” the besweatered girl wheedled good-naturedly. “We won’t tell a soul.”

Exasperated, perhaps even a little uncomfortable, her brother interjected, “Mabel, this might _not_ be the best time for roman—”

“Shush your face!” she cut him off, not even looking over. “We need to find out who he is, and what more integral part of an identity is there than one’s romantic prospects?”

“Sh-she has a point!” Norman piped up, hating his voice for suddenly piping up an octave, too. “L-let’s let him talk. It, uh, could be helpful. For _him_.”

Detoby muttered to himself, {I swear, it’s like being back in the trenches all over again . . .}

“Go on!” Mabel said encouragingly. “Tell us all about this Dash of yours!”

Though his pale stretch of face could not physically blush anymore, all four of them could hear the blush in the Slender Man’s voice as he answered, “**I evvven used to th-think . . . mmmaybe Dash and mmme . . . might guh-go _to_ _prrrom_ _together_ . . . seeenior year . . . Tuh-told you it’s ssstupid . . . Don’t evvven know if . . . if he llll-liked guys, too . . .**”

{_Exactly_ like being back in the trenches,} the Jokergeist lamented. {All the same pansy-picking, bosom-heaving melodrama . . .}

The Medium shot a glance in his direction. “I d-don’t know if that was offensive or not, but you and I are gonna have _a talk_ about it later all the same, Mister Determined.”

Dipper decided to change the subject. “What about _after_ high school?”

“**_Mmmore_ basket . . . ball . . . H-ha . . . I wwwanted to play in cooollege . . . get a degreeee in ffff-physical educa-tion . . . Jjjjoin the Boston Celtics . . . Rrrretire and cuh-coach it in skuh-schools . . .**”

“It s-sounds like it would’ve been a great life,” Norman said compassionately (even though the appeal of sports and basketball was incomprehensible to him). “What about b-before the hospital?”

Shaking his head, the Slender Man said, “**It’s hhhard to remember . . .**”

“Well, what was your favorite kind of cookie?” Mabel asked. “I like the pink frosting ones!”

{_Frosting_? On a _cookie_? And I didn’t think society could get any more decadent than the 20s . . . and I absaposolutely _love_ that it has!}

“Pff. Style over substance,” Dipper said snidely. “Chocolate chip cookies, with a one-to-one ratio of milk chocolate and semi-sweet chips, are the superlative cookies. Obviously. It’s an objective _fact_.”

“I like s-snickerdoodle,” Norman ventured. “Anything with cinnamon.”

Dipper considered that, then nodded permissively. “Yeah, I guess those are pretty good, too.”

“**. . . I th-think I liked . . . ooooatmeal cream pie cookies?**” the Slender Man speculated.

“Like you can buy prepackaged in boxes from Small Deborah?”

“**Y-yeah**! **Those onnnes**!”

“What about your favorite band?” Mabel asked without missing a beat.

“**Ffffallout Boy . . . I remm-member that one alright . . .**”

“What grade were you in?” Dipper asked. “We’re all in seventh.”

“**Eighth? I’m . . . ffffourteen, so . . . Wwwait, am I st-still . . . fourteen?”**

“Yeah, absolutely,” Dipper said hurriedly (ignoring the fascinating but problematic question of how the passage of time should be counted for transdimensional beings) before changing the subject. “What was your favorite school subject? I mean, after PE? Myself, I actually _really_ like math and science, and _love_ the classes that combine them. Like, y’know, physics and chemistry and such.”

“Art and theater for me!” Mabel proudly proclaimed. “Anything where I get to be creative!”

Norman shrugged. “Any class where we get to r-read and talk about interesting stories, I guess. Like, English? Always wanted to do a m-music class, too, but I don’t know how to play anything . . .”

“**Wwwas it . . . hhh-home ecc?**” the Slender Man wondered. “**Didn’t I . . . llllike cooking, too?**”

“No way! Cooking is, like, _tons_ of fun! What was your favorite food? To cook and to eat?”

“**Ummm . . . It-alian food? Yyyyeah, I think it was . . .**”

“Who did you c-cook with?” Norman asked suddenly.

“**. . . Wwwith . . . Mmmom . . . and Jjjoshy, my llllittle bro . . .**” For a moment, it almost looked like tears formed in the Slender Man’s sticker eyes.** “I r-_really_ mmmiss doing that, guys . . . I mmmiss Mom and . . . Jo-oshy . . .**”

Hanging his head, Dipper declared, “We . . . We know what that’s like . . . We, uh, lost our mom and dad recently, too . . . We m-miss them a ton, too. Every day . . .” He looked to his sister, who nodded in somber agreement. Then, after she gave him a meaningful look, he cleared his throat to change the subject again.

But Norman, with a light squeeze of the behatted boy’s hand, signaled him to stop. There was a determination in his blue eyes, and it confirmed he had planned specifically for this disconsolate state. “What n-nicknames did they have for you?”

After a moment, the answer came soft and low. “**Wwwick . . . Joshy called me . . . ‘Wwwick’ . . . Be-cause he . . . cuh-couldn’t pronounce my nnname right as a buh-baby . . . It jjjust stuck . . . evvven as he grrrew older . . . I wwwwas always . . . ‘Wick’ to himmm . . .**”

“So then w-what is the _right_ way to pronounce your name?”

“**. . . Eric.**” A quiet realization—not a shouted eureka, but the sigh of a long-sought epiphany—filled with relief . . . and something like regret. “**Mmmy name is . . . _Eric_ . . . Errric _Knudsen_.**”

As if coordinated, the stickers suddenly, all as one, fell away from the Slender Man’s pale skin. Behind them, a spiral trail of faint, spectral energy lingered in the air. But an even brighter trace remained on every spot where Mabel had placed the stickers. Unlike the trails spiraling through the air, these traces grew brighter and wider until they covered all of the Slender Man’s head. When they finally faded away . . . there was a face. The drawn and weary face of a boy aged prematurely past fourteen by harsh disease, harsher medications, and harshest emotional anguish. The face of Eric Knudsen, who no longer was the Slender Man.

“{Wwwhat . . . the hhheck?}” he mumbled as he felt his restored face, eloquently summing up both his own sentiments of wonder, and those of the Mystery Kids plus one.

A sudden stillness fell upon that gray waste. A strange sort of silence, too—something beyond the fact that the kidnapped children, all as one, ceased their crying and their sobbing; it was as if some constant background noise had been entirely shut off. And all around them, the quality of that ambient, spectral light shifted, too; not that it was brighter or warmer, but it seemed to be less cold, at least.

The Mystery Kids plus _two_ now looked around in astonishment. Dipper eloquently summed up their collective sentiment of astonishment, “What the heck?”

No longer roiling in vagrantly sinister wisps, the fog began to drift downward. Slowly, it settled and formed a layer, thick and oozing as molasses, that was as close to sludge as air (or anything gaseous) could get. With it, the kidnapped children slumped and sprawled, all as one, on the ground. Like puppets whose strings had all been cut at once. Like a group succumbing to syncope in synchronization.

Mabel was the one to eloquently sum up the Mystery Kids plus two’s sentiments of alarm this time. “What the frickin’ heck-heck?!”

“Are they . . . D-did they just . . . They c-can’t be . . .” Norman faltered, horrified.

Detoby, with only a split second’s hesitation, released his “hold” on the Medium and zoomed towards the nearest child. After a brief moment examining their face, he announced with palpable relief {Alive!} Then he was by a second child, and a third, and a fourth. {Alive! Alive! Alive!}

“Th-they’re all still alive! Detoby says they’re all alive!”

“_Fecund Moses_, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack from that!” Dipper muttered.

Suddenly, the Jokergeist froze. He cast his gaze about, as if trying to find something, then soared right back over to Norman and wrapped his arms around him again. Unusually agitated, he whispered, {Something’s happened, but as to why I got no clue, Bugaboo. Y’see, that voice? It’s gone radio silent. My antennears aren’t picking up _anything_ at all.}

“{Ssssame hhhere . . .}” Eric Knudsen agreed, looking around in bewilderment.

“What’s that? What’s the same” Dipper asked.

{But, odd as it is to say, I don’t like this radio silence_, not one bit_,} Detoby declared emphatically. {I smell a rat. Or rather, I’m no longer hearing a rat that didn’t bother keeping quiet before now. I think the voice is getting ready to try some scheme, and we’d best figure out a strategy!}

“Y-yeah, good idea,” the Medium agreed.

“What is he saying?” Dipper asked impatiently. “What’s even happening?”

Norman whipped back around without answering. Instead, he asked, “Eric, do you know where the voice comes from? Or where the Cursed Door is? I think we n-need to know now—_right_ _now_!”

“{Cuh-ursed Door? Um . . . The d-door just sorta ‘ppear-suh . . . I th-_think_ . . . wwww-whenev-ver I nnneed to guh-go . . . find more f-fffffriends . . .}” Eric replied, confused by the distinction. “{B-but . . . when it duh-does appear . . . the v-voice seem-suh to cccome . . . _from_ the d-door.}”

“You mean, like, from _behind_ the door? Even on this side of it?” Mabel asked. “You mean the voice’s always coming from the other side of it, no matter which side we’re on?”

“I guess that sorta weird, space-time bending would make sense, given what we know about it leading to a, like, pocket dimension, and such,” Dipper said, though dubious.

“{Nnno, I m-mmmean . . . it comes _fffrom_ the door. Like, the duh-door _itself_ . . . sorta t-talks.}”

“. . . What?” both Norman and Detoby asked at the same time.

For the umpteenth time since being taken by the Slender Man, Dipper longed for the freedom to facepalm, yet both his hands were still occupied by holding his sister and his best friend. Still, his tone dripped with exasperation as he surmised, “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re saying the Cursed Door is_ not_ the tool of some kidnapping, malevolent sentience . . . but actually _has been_ the kidnapping, malevolent sentience _all along_? Ugh! That right there is some M. Night Shyamalan level _bull_ _shan’t_, that’s what that is!” he exclaimed. “The deeper we go into this case, the freakin’ _madder_ it makes me!”

“Dang, we really should’ve put that together sooner,” Mabel said with a self-deprecating shake of her head. “Like, if you think about it like this place is a stomach we got vored into—”

“_Please_ stop saying _that_ _word_!” her brother interjected imploringly.

{What does it even mean?} Detoby asked the Medium (who swore he would never tell him).

“—and Slendy was the frog tongue, then of course the Cursed Door’d have to be the mouth. And mouths do the talking, so . . . Whoa, what the heck-heck?!” she burst out in alarm.

Because all of the sudden, the weak and wan light flared even as it seemed to wash-out faster away from the circles of comatose children! As though it were being sucked into the darkness! The fog whipped off the cold, hard ground—harder than a roil now, it was a furious billow engulfing everything! As though all of that gray waste were a seething cauldron around them! And the temperature dropped to the same chill that had invaded the town all week! As though the merciless cold now sought to numb them to the very bone and gradually subdue them!

By reflex, the Mystery Kids plus one huddled together defensively toward Eric Knudsen, and Dipper shouted, “I think we must’ve made the voice angry by finally figuring all this out!”

{Regular Sherlock Holmes, this one!} Detoby replied sarcastically. {Doesn’t do us a lick of good, though—not even one _taste_ of good—if we can’t find where the Cursed Door is hiding!}

“Detoby’s right! We need to f-find the Cursed Door! _And_ _now_!” the Medium transmitted.

Mabel began to shiver against the cold. “How, though, when we can b-barely see anything or move l-like this?! Jeez, I w-wish I’d worn a c-coat! This place is f-freakin’ _freezing_!”

Her brother, instead of just holding to her shoulder, slipped his arm around both her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Here, Sis, this’ll help! For a bit, at least!”

“Sh-shoot, what about the _other_ k-kids?!” Norman looked back towards the children slumped upon the cold, hard ground in circles. “We d-don’t do something qu-quick, the voice might f-freeze them to death!”

“{Nnnno . . .}” Horrified, Eric Knudsen stared around him at all the children the voice had tricked him into abducting—at all those lost souls he had tried to save from despair, at all the friends he had tried to make in order to save himself from his own bleak loneliness . . . But all along, it was the voice who had misled them into despair in the first place, who had perpetuated Eric’s own bleak loneliness. And now it thought it could steal away the last of their _very_ _lives_, too? On top of _everything else_ it had _already_ done to them—_everything else_ _it had tricked him into doing to them_?! Now it thought it could hurt his new, real friends, too?! Kill them?! Freeze them?! “{Nnnno . . . nonoNoNoNONO**NONO NO** **NO**! **STOP RIGHT_ NOW_**!” he roared, rising up impossibly tall, raising his impossibly thin arms in a gesture of protection! Of rebellion! Of self-assertion!

Like a ripple in the pocket dimension’s surreality—no, more like a tsunami of spectral energy—more forceful than anything Norman or the Cursed Door had unleashed, his roar surged outward in all directions at once! The numbing cold, the billowing fog, and the sucking darkness were all swept back!

Vibrating like it had just been struck by a battering ram, the Cursed Door was now revealed. Behind the Mystery Kids, where the Slender Man had first brought them into this gray waste, #13 stood. There was no wall; it was seemingly to nowhere, standing in the middle of this nowhere. It had no knob at all, however, and was closed fast against them.

Detoby exhaled hard. {I know it’s got no eyes nor features, but does it look like it’s _glaring_ at us to you too, Bugaboo?}

The Medium gulped, then nodded. “It does n-_not_ look happy with us. N-not one bit.”

What a stupidly obvious thing to say, you abNorman, little freak.

In that instant, the Mystery Kids plus two all startled backwards a step. They shot quick glances at each other, seeking confirmation that they had all heard the voice, too—all heard the same words.

“. . . Nnngh!” a teenager’s voice suddenly moaned. Then another’s and another’s. All around, abducted children fretfully began to stir. Some managed to open their dazed eyes; some even were able to roll onto their sides, or onto their hands and knees.

“Sweet Sally!” Mabel exclaimed in elation. “Slendy—I mean, _Eric_—you did it! You snapped them out of it! You broke the voice’s hold on them!”

“Way to go, man!” her brother chorused.

“{Tha . . . Thannnnnks!}” Eric replied breathlessly.

You think this changes anything, you twidiots?

Dipper scoffed. “Pff! You want us to take you seriously, you gotta pick _between_ ‘twits’ _or_ ‘idiot’.”

“I think that’s _supposed_ to be, like, a contraction of ‘twins’ and ‘idiots’,” his sister scoffed along. “But you’re definitely right, Bro-Bro. No way we’re gonna be scared of anything that says ‘twidiots’.”

Mock me all you want while you still can, you weak, little morsels.

“If w-we’re so weak, how come we’re beating you back?” Norman retorted defiantly.

How long do you think you can hold out against me? You, who are _mortal_ and made of meat, and will reduce under pressure. You, who have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from me any longer, for you are _trapped_ inside me. How long, when it is _only_ with the leftover dregs of _my own power_ that my agent can now _barely_ hold me back?

Dipper inhaled sharply. “Damper! That _is_ a serious problem for us.”

Detoby bit his transparent lip. {Attrition is an atrocious thing to have to fight. Believe me, I was in the trenches.}

He will fail. It is only a matter of time. And when he does, I will slowly eat away at your souls until nothing remains but your empty husks. Yes, it is only a matter of time for you scrappy tidbits.

Eric strained with his spectral exertion. “{Nnnnn-_no_ . . . _Not_ guh-gonna lose!”}

Norman blanched in fear. “F-fricative . . .”

And Mabel . . . Mabel had officially had enough. She stamped and stated, “That. Is. _IT_! I’m sick of this . . . like, this digestively aggressive egress!”

{Ooo! That was a neat one!} the Jokergeist said, unable to not admire the wordplay.

“We’re gonna go home _now_, Miss or Mister Cursed Door—_all_ of us!” she continued adamantly, as if stating a fact and daring reality and/or surreality to contradict it. “And you’re _not_ gonna stop us!”

“But, Mabes, _how_?” her brother asked in a low rush. “There’s no doorknob, and there’s definitely no way the Cursed Door is gonna just open itself for us.”

He is right, you stupid, deluded, small fry. Why would I regurgitate my half-digested food?

“Gah!” Norman gagged with a shudder.

Her eyes locked on the #13 placard, Mabel took a step forward. “I’m gonna open it _myself_. Simple as that, Bro-Bro. See, I opened it once already, so I _know_ I can do it again. I got the three of us—er, _four_, sorry Detoby—into this mess, and now . . . _Now I’m gonna get us back out of it for good_!”

Ha! And how will you do that? You are barely an appetizer, girl. Just a bite-sized delicacy to me.

“_Shut your keyhole_!” Mabel snapped, taking another step forward (leading both her brother and her friend along behind her). “Moses! I am _soooo_ _SICK_ of you being in my head! SICK of you being mean to me, _and_ to my friends, _and_ to kids I don’t even know but who’re prob’ly _just like us_!” Another step. Another ardent statement. “So, yeah, this might be, like, the coocoo-bananasest idea I’ve had all night, but I’m just gonna straight-up KICK! YOUR! CLASP! ‘til you fall off your freakin’ hinges!”

{Ha! Yes! Release the bearcat!} Detoby cheered. {Let her claws be unsheathed!}

Dipper, for his part, gaped at his sister in disbelief. “Are you _sure_ about this, Sis-Sis?! It could be _really_ dangerous to even touch that thing!”

“More dangerous than waiting ‘til Eric, like, can’t hold out any longer?” she questioned back. And, as if on cue, the boy towering over them groaned with the effort of holding back the malevolence. “Trust me, Dipdop, this’ll work. Like, _don’t_ let go of me, but trust me.”

“W-we’re with you, Mabel!” Norman affirmed, following right behind.

{Absaposalutely!}

“. . . Yeah, we are,” Dipper concurred faithfully. “Every step of the way. Now let’s go frack some of this Cursed Door’s shiv up!”

You truly think you can hurt me? Imbeciles. I am a _world_.

“Yeah, and even worlds can _die_!” Dipper snarled, moving ever closer with his sister, best friend, and associated ghost. “Especially when they mess with my sister!”

A sister who is responsible for all the recent misery that has struck your town. _She_ did that.

“No, she did _not_!”

She _named_ the others, _including you yourself_. Her own brother. She _wanted_ all this to happen.

“NO, SHE DID _NOT_!” Dipper repeated furiously. “_YOU_ manipulated her at a time when she was emotionally vulnerable! _YOU_ took advantage of her grief! Godsdamn it, it was all _YOU_, you bastard!”

Mabel squeezed her brother’s hand in gratitude. Then, standing right before the Cursed Door, she raised her head high and spoke. “You did that when I felt all alone and depressed. But guess what? I’m _not_ alone anymore, and I _know_ it; I’ve got my Bro-Bro, and Norm-Norm, Detob-Tob, Eric Slendy . . . and Soos, Wendy, Waddles, Gruncle Stan, too—I’ve got, like, _soooo_ many people who are there for me. _And I know it_! So you _can’t_ get to me anymore with your tricks and your lies.”

You are _nothing_. Your existence is _meaningless_. You do _not_ deserve to live.

“Heh. Trying to make me depressed again, and _that’s_ the best you got?” she chuckled to herself. “Well, guess what? I’m _not_ depressed anymore . . . I’M FREAKIN’ _ANGRY_!” With all her might, she kicked where the latch bolt connected to the lock jamb! The whole frame rattled from the blow!

A sudden spike of warmth washed over the gray waste. Fog slithered back into the darkness like retreating snakes. The dome of light around the abducted children grew noticeably stronger and fuller, and some of them weakly heaved themselves into sitting positions or even faltered onto their knees.

Ugh! For that, you raw piece of salt, I will make you weep until your tear ducts bleed!

“Ha! No, you won’t, ‘cause you’re going down RIGHT _NOW_!” And she kicked with all her might at the exact same spot a second time, cracking wood around it!

More heat, more clarity, more radiance! More children rising up from their hopeless dejection!

_ARGH_! YOU WILL SUFFER UNTO DEATH, BUT NEVER KNOW THE RELEASE OF IT! I WILL MAKE—

“Hey, guys,” Mabel said, positioning herself between the other two Mystery Kids. “Help me, like, shut up this squeaky son of a hinge for good, okay? On three, swing me at it.”

—YOU SERVE AS MY AGENT, GLUTTING ME WITH MEATBAG AFTER MEATBAG SO YOU WILL—

Dipper took one hand and Norman took the other. Mabel readied herself, like a drawn slingshot.

—CONTINUE TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SUFFERING OF OTHERS FOR LONGER—

“One. Two. THREE!” She bounded forward as the boys swung, so she went completely parallel with the cold, hard ground! Driving straight at it with all the might of all three of them combined (“_HYA_!”), she kicked with both feet right at the Cursed Door’s weak spot!

—THAN ETERNIT_EEAAAAARGH_!

With a snap like a miasma ripping asunder, like a glacier shattering in pieces, like a lightning bolt splitting in twain—like a dam between worlds bursting thanks to one solid kick from one very angry fourteen-year-old girl—the Cursed Door burst outward! An opening that was only supposed to swing _inward_ now swung _outward_! Back into Gravity Falls! Back into the physical plane! There was a great rushing, like a wild gale, as all the Cursed Door’s stolen vital energy cascaded out through that opening! Fog, cold, and spectral light (along with a flurry of board game pieces and papers)—all of it went rushing out through that opening!

_NNNNNYYYYYAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHGHGHGHGHGH_!

Together, the boys caught the besweatered girl and set her back on her feet. Above the rushing around their ears and the screaming inside their skulls, the behatted one reveled exultantly, “MABEL, THAT WAS FREAKIN’ _AWESOME_!”

“YEAH! AWESOME!” Norman chorused.

She beamed. “I KNEW I COULD DO IT BECAUSE _NOTHING_ IS STRONGER THAN THE POWER OF—”

“FRIENDSHIP?” Norman guessed.

“I WAS GONNA SAY ‘MABEL’, BUT FRIENDSHIP’S PRETTY STRONG, TOO!”

“Ha!” But then, looking back into the gray waste, he could see the darkness advancing on them, as though that pocket dimension were now shrinking into oblivion around them. Terrified, he shouted, “GUYS, THE ABDUCTED CHILDREN! WE GOTTA HURRY AND GET THEM OUT OF—”

I AM NOT DONE WITH MY MEAL YET!

Detoby pointed in alarm. {THE DOOR! WATCH OUT FOR—}

Like a pale flash above the Mystery Kids’ (plus one’s) heads, Eric Knudsen’s impossibly long arm whipped forward! A millisecond before the Cursed Door could slam itself shut, he caught it! “**Y-YYYESSS! YOU! _ARRRRE_!**” Inch by inch, he forced it fully open again—forced it to swing back outward—and held it against the torrent and the wailing of the Cursed Door’s defeat!

{Nerts! Eric, that’s so nifty, we ought to call you Jake!}

“{Www-what? Oh, never mmmind . . . I guh-got this, guh-guys! Get the . . . oth-ers . . . _Quick_!}”

Thinking fast, Norman saw the solution. After only a second’s worth of regretting hesitation (when else would he get the chance to hold Dipper’s hand for so long?), he released the twins.

The behatted boy blinked in surprise at him, and so did his sister. “Dude, what about—”

“W-WE HAVE TO SPLIT UP TO GET ALL THE KIDS OUT IN TIME! YOU TAKE _THAT_ SIDE! MABEL, TAKE _THAT_ SIDE! I’LL GET THE ONES IN THE BACK! AND DETOBY, YOU GET THE GHOSTS!” the Medium instructed in a tone that brooked no arguments. “_GO_!” And he dashed off.

{Right behind you, Bugaboo!} And the Jokergeist zoomed off. {HEY, WHITEHAWK! TIME TO FLY!}

Mabel and Dipper exchanged a glance, then a nod, then charged in opposite directions. “HEY! HEY, YOU! ON YOUR FEET! C’MON! WE GOTTA GET MOVING! YOU, TOO! HURRY!”

“CAN YOU STAND? GREAT! HELP HIM UP, ‘CAUSE I DON’T THINK HE CAN! AND HER, TOO!”

“SEE THAT DOOR?! RUN THROUGH IT AS FAST AS YOU CAN! WE’LL BE SAFE ON THE OTER SIDE!”

Separately but working together, they each wended their way from one person to the next, pointing those already on their feet towards safety (even pushing when necessary) and pulling upright those who hadn’t managed to stand of their own power. Where they could, they recruited assistance. No one among the abducted children was anywhere near lucid, yet most could understand the urgency of the situation and follow the basic directions shouted at them.

“JUST THROUGH THAT DOOR! THAT’S ALL! YOU ONLY HAVE TO GO THAT FAR, OKAY? NOW GO!”

“LEAN ON EACH OTHER AND GET GOING! MAYBE YOU’RE FEELING, LIKE, SICK AND WEAK, BUT IF WE ALL HELP EACH OTHER, WE CAN ALL MAKE IT OUT OF HERE ALIVE!”

{NO TIME TO EXPLAIN, PINKY! JUST HURRY OUT THE DOOR BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!}

“THAT’S IT! UP YOU COME AND OFF YOU GO! AND—oh . . . yeah, Gideon, I guess you, too. GO!”

“GRAB THEIR HANDS AND TAKE THEM WITH YOU! DON’T ARGUE WITH ME, THERE’S NO TI—ugh, seriously? LOOK, _BITCH_, DID I FREAKIN’_ STUTTER_?! JUST _DO_ IT! _Finally_! THANK YOU!”

A minute later, the Mystery Kids plus one converged back where Eric Knudsen had reemerged from the facelessness of the Slender Man persona. “IS THAT EVERYBODY?” Mabel shouted, scooping up her sticker omnibus and backpack.

{EVERYBODY BUT YOUR BODIES AND MY NOBODY!} the Jokergeist quipped with a honk.

“THINK SO, AND NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON, TOO!” Dipper answered. “THIS PLACE LOOKS LIKE IT’S ABOUT READY TO COLLAPSE OUT OF EXISTENCE ANY MINUTE!”

Pointing opposite the opening, at a prone figure, Mabel asked, “WHAT ABOUT HIM?”

Norman didn’t even have to look. He shook his head. “THAT’S ERIC’S D-_DEAD_ BODY!”

“Oh . . . SHOULD WE, UM, TAKE IT WITH US?” Dipper asked uncertainly.

Norman shook his head again. “WHAT G-GOOD’D IT DO TO HAVE HIS DEAD BODY REAPPEAR THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY AND Y-YEARS LATER?”

Detoby bit his spectral lip while Mabel peered soberly at the lifeless body. “I dunno . . .”

“HIS FAMILY M-MOVED ON LONG AGO! WE SHOULD L-LEAVE IT AT THAT!” Norman affirmed. Then, more urgently, he also affirmed, “ALSO, _WE_ SHOULD MOVE ON FROM HERE _NOW_, TOO!”

Dipper nodded, then lay a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “HE’S RIGHT! C’MON! LET’S GO HOME!”

Reluctantly, the besweatered girl turned towards their escape. “Okay, I guess . . . Let’s g—DIPSTICK, WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?!” she demanded as her brother made a sudden detour.

“What?!” Bending down to swiftly scoop up the Wii console and controllers, along with as many of the games as he could carry (a maneuver that Gruncle Stan would have no doubt heartily approved), he countered defensively, “Free games and stuff! _Expensive_ stuff, too, that’s now _our_ stuff!” Then, resuming his first course, he jogged towards their exit, adding, “Didn’t take any extra time, either!”

Norman shook his head as he ran along beside him. “Unbe-_fecund_-lievable . . .”

“I know, right? We just scored Mario Kart, some Legend of Zelda games, and a bunch of others!”

Now they were at the threshold of the Cursed Door, hurtling back towards home! For a second, everything skewed around them—space warped and bent, flipped upside down and sideways across—as they passed between dimensions! Then their feet met the sidewalk concrete and roadway asphalt of Main Street, and everything snapped back to the way it was supposed to be! Night sky was overhead, all around was Gravity Falls, and a crowd comprised of every child who had been abducted was just ahead!

Last of all, Eric Knudsen came through—a free boy at last! But when he did, he did not release his grip on the Cursed Door; no, with both hands, he held it open still! He even pushed it further open against the strain of its hinges, back-bending them, until it pressed against the building’s exterior wall!

PLEASE STOP! THIS WILL _KILL_ ME! YOU ARE KILLING ME BY LETTING EVERYTHING OUT!

Gritting his teeth against the exertion, Eric Knudsen replied, “{Thu-then . . . puh_-per-rish_ . . .}

NO! PLEASE STOP! PLEASE SPARE ME! PLEA—

Eric Knudsen seized the edges of the Cursed Door and heaved with all his strength.

With a scream, a screech, a shriek like metal being ripped apart, the Cursed Door was wrenched from its frame! And then, with an odd sound that was like both the death rattle of a demon of gluttony and the rattling of a broken doorknob, it tipped over . . . it struck the ground . . . it shattered like glass, coldly glowing pieces skittering over asphalt and frittering away bit by bit as they went along until . . . until, finally, it had completely disintegrated—light and substance—and dissolved away. Like a puff of smoke, or like a wisp of fog . . .

Then, all around them, it was like a great ripple was spreading outward through the streets, through the town, through the whole valley; the fog ceased to swirl about in the air and, listlessly, sank to the ground in a drowsy wave. Before their eyes, spreading outward in all directions, it melted away. Stars became visible overhead again. And, though the air certainly did not become warm (it was still mid-September in a mountain town, after all), it ceased to be cold.

Dipper, his arms still full of transdimensionally pilfered video games, grinned. “_We did it, guys_! We _really_ did it! Way to go, Mabel! Way to go, Eric! And . . . man, way to go, Norman!” he added with a grin that was extra beaming. “You guys were all awesome in there!”

“Woo! Yeah!” Mabel crowed, turning and high-fiving one of Eric Knudsen’s long, pale hands.

“{Cuh-cannn’t even remmm-ember . . . the last tuh-time something f-ffffelt . . . this awesome! Oh, sssst-stars . . .}” he intoned in mild but pleasant surprise. “{Can’t rememb-er the last . . . time I s-saw tho-suh . . .}”

{And what am I? Chopped invisible liver?} Detoby demanded melodramatically of the world.

“Heh! To him, you might as well be,” the Medium pointed out.

Dipper blinked. “Huh?”

{Well, it still feels nice to be recognized and congratulated. Tell the head-roof goof to recognize and congratulate me, too.}

“Oh! Way to go, Detoby!” Dipper quickly added, putting things together on his own. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Um, y’know, probably?”

Before the Jokergeist could comment on how that last part sounded somewhat sarcastic, one of the formerly missing children (a girl with reddish hair and a shirt that read “Everything looks better when it’s ON FIRE”) turned towards them with a slack jaw and a dazed look in her eyes. “Where . . . Where am I? W-what . . . What happened? I can’t r-remember how I got here . . .”

They all turned around to look at the crowd of children and teenagers (and three adult ghosts). Some of them had sunk frailly to the ground, but even those who hadn’t were clearly flagging fast, too. Bent and bowed with fatigue and trauma, rocking back and forth, curled in upon themselves with tightly folded arms—some even in fetal positions on the ground by now—and numb shivers. Those who were better off were looking around with the same slack-jawed expression, whimpering out a dazed chorus of similar questions. It was painfully apparent, even in the darkened street, that escaping the Cursed Door hadn’t cured them of the malnutrition and exposure to which they had been subjected (for a technically incalculable length of time) in that now non-existent pocket dimension.

“Ooo . . . These guys aren’t looking so great,” Mabel intoned worriedly. “What are we gonna do with them, Dipping Sauce?”

Her brother bit his lip. “We can’t take them to the Shack. For one thing, I’m betting that’s too far for most of them, what with the state they’re in. Plus, how would we explain how we found them? Where they came from? Some have been missing for years already, and they all disappeared hundreds of miles from here, at least.”

“But we can’t just, like, _leave them here_ like this!” she protested. “Look at them! They look like death warmed over, flash frozen and packaged like a cheap burrito, then microwaved for 47 seconds!”

“That’s the most oddly specific yet accurately descriptive metaphor I’ve ever heard in my life,” Norman observed.

Eric Knudsen, despite towering over even the tallest of children and teenagers in the crowd, guiltily tried to shrink back. “{I’mmm . . . s-sorry for that . . .}”

“Well, maybe we can—”

Suddenly, a girl’s voice—tremulous, yet stronger than all the other whimpering voices—shrilled, “I’m! Going! Home!”

Even through the dark, even though the girl didn’t even look back once as she went stumbling up one of the streets, Mabel recognized her voice and her blonde hair. “Pacifica . . .”

There was a glimmer as a cellphone was activated, the distant sound of a speed dial contact. And then the same girl’s tremulous voice (just as shrill, but softer now both because she was getting further away and because she was speaking to someone close to her) asking, “B-Benjamin? Can you—yeah, it’s m-me. C-can you come pick me up, please? Um . . . Benjamin, are you c-crying?”

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about her, now,” Dipper noted, and not unhappily. “Now, for the rest, maybe—”

“D-Daddy!” another girl cried out, staggering at a run down another street. “I want my Daddy!” Meanwhile, a second behind her, another girl cried, “Wait for me! I don’t wanna be alone anymore!” Neither looked back, either.

“And there go Pacifica’s minions,” Dipper added approvingly. “Good. I didn’t wanna have to deal with any of them anyw—”

It was then that Gideon Gleeful, squealing, “Oh, my stars and garters, I just want this nightmare to end!” broke into a wobbling sprint in the direction of his own home. Not even a glance was given over his shoulder.

Before another beat of time had passed, but without a word, the former Grand Goth lurched wearily off in a completely different direction from all others. Towards his/her home, presumably. Likewise, she/he never even glanced once behind himself/herself at the remaining children.

And though neither Mabel nor Dipper could perceive them, Robert Whitehawk, Bertram Pincus, and Grandmother Chiu also all drifted off in the directions of their respective anchors. Passive and limp, like half-deflated balloons carried along by a feeble wind, muttering wearily to themselves.

“Heh. Give it five more minutes at this rate, and there’ll be no one left for us to worry about,” Dipper quipped.

“Yeah, I don’t think the ones rocking back and forth on the ground are gonna just get up and wander off in the direction of, like, _freakin’ Connecticut_ or whatever, Dipstick!” Mabel retorted. “C’mon, we gotta, like, actually do something to help them.”

A boy with goggles on his head tottered up to the “ON FIRE” girl and faltered, “L-Lils? Y’know where . . . we are? Can’t think straight . . . Feel like I got . . . hit with a Confusion Grenade . . .”

“Was . . . just askin’ these guys . . .” the girl (Lils?) answered. “Since they’re clearly . . . in better shape’n the rest of us . . . Also, don’t call me that.”

“. . . You guys are sharp,” Dipper observed, though in a tone of voice that suggested he found this to be worrisome.

“Why is . . . the G-Man . . . with you guys?” the begoggled boy asked, bemusedly looking up.

Eric Knudsen seemed to shrink back even further. But Norman hurriedly answered, “B-because he was a v-victim here, too, like you guys. But everyone’s safe now. Everyone can j-just . . . go home.”

That seemed to be good enough for the begoggled boy. “Okay . . . Where are we, though?”

“Um . . .” The Mystery Kids exchanged a look. Finally, Dipper shrugged and stated, “Oregon.”

“Whoa . . . That’s a _long_ way from Colorado . . .” the girl intoned, rubbing tiredly at her temples.

“Y-yeah,” Norman agreed, for want of something better to say. His hand was already in his hair as deep as his knuckles, running nervously up and down it. Then something occurred to him. “Wait . . . Didn’t that one g-girl use her phone a second ago?”

“Pacifica?” Mabel surmised. “Yeah, I think so. Why do you—_OH_! If _she_ used her phone, that means _all the phones_ are working again! Which means we can just, like, call the cops on Norman’s phone to come take care of everyone here!”

“No, we can’t!” Dipper countered hurriedly. “Because then they’ll have a record that we called, and they’ll wanna know how we knew about all the missing children, and they’ll start asking questions we can’t answer because no one else can know about the . . . y’know, the you-know-what. So it’s just better for us if no one knows we were involved in any way at all!”

“What, you guys’re secret agents, too?” the begoggled boy asked numbly.

“What? No! Why would you even—” Dipper suddenly shut his mouth, and his eyes flicked back and forth over the boy and the girl. Slowly, he asked, “What do you mean by ‘secret agents, _too’_? ”

The “ON FIRE” girl’s (Lils’?) hands went from rubbing her temples to covering her eyes.

“Oh my gosh!” Mabel gasped. “Are you guys secret agents?! _Are you Spy Kids_?!”

“. . . Whaaaaaaat? N-no!” the begoggled boy tried to backtrack. “Because that would be . . . silly! H-ha! No government would ever employ children as super-secret agents, no matter what superpowers or training they may or may not have received at a super-secret compound high in the Colorado Rockies! Especially _not_ the US government! Th-that would be grossly unethical and irresponsible!”

Softly, exasperatedly, the “On Fire” girl uttered a string of curse words (which everyone present, except the begoggled boy, found utterly shocking—especially Detoby, who floated there with his jaw practically hanging all the way to the ground) which ultimately ended with, “—on a sandwich, Raz . . .”

Sheepishly, “S-sorry, Lils,” was all he could say in response.

Looking skyward incredulously, Dipper muttered, “Ugh . . . Of all the times for proof of a (probably) supernatural government conspiracy to just waltz right up to me and reveal itself . . . I am way too tired to deal with this right now . . .”

“Well, that makes two of us . . .” she (Lils?) concurred with a shake of her head. “And stop calling me that, Raz.”

But Mabel rallied, “L-look, whatever super-secret agency you two don’t work for doesn’t matter right now, okay? ‘cause those other kids really need help, so . . . Do you totally-_not_-super-secret-agents have a phone of your own, or something? Because if we call on your phone and you two, like, swear not to tell anyone about the fo—er, the five—of us, everyone gets what they need: all of you guys get medical help and to go home, and all of us guys get to go home and remain secret and hidden and my brother doesn’t have a paranoid freak-out. Win-win.”

“_Five_ of you?” the begoggled boy (Raz?) repeated uncertainly, his tired eyes flickering over Mabel, Dipper, Norman, and Eric Knudsen. “Okay, whatever, but . . . We don’t even know where we are or w-what happened to us,” he protested. “What’re we even supposed to report to our—er, I mean . . . What’re we supposed to, um, tell the reporters and police and doctors? . . . Oh, and our parents, too? Because that is what. Every normal kid thinks about. In these types of situations.”

The “ON FIRE” girl (Lils?) uttered a shorter string of curse words, this time ending with, “—and fries on the side, Dad must be flipping his—”

Norman interrupted with the suggestion, “Tell them the truth? That you, like, d-don’t know or really remember much clearly . . . and m-maybe it was all hallucinations anyway?”

Satisfied, Dipper nodded. “Yeah. Can you swear to say that and to not tell anyone about us?”

Straightening up, the “ON FIRE” girl (Lils?) grumbled, “Sure. Fine. Yes. Whatever. Raz and me promise we won’t say a single word about it to anyone. Now is that good? Right now, I just want warm food and a warm bed. If that’s what it takes, we promise.” She handed her phone over to Mabel then. “Just make it so we can get outta here.”

Without missing a beat, Mabel punched in 911, covered the speaker with her sweater, and affected a voice that might maybe have been meant to be a middle-aged and overweight duchesse. “Good evening, is this Scotland Meter? . . . The constables, I mean. Is this the constables? . . . Yes, of course I meant ‘the police’, but y’know how it is when you’re British, as I clearly am. Anyway, my duck, this call is to inform you that the missing children in Gravity Falls—and then some—have all reappeared, and they’re all in downtown Gravity Falls (or perhaps uptown from where the Scotland Meter is found?). Anyway, you should come to #13 Main Street and get them right away. They look like they could, um . . . er, use a good English breakfast? Yes, use a good English breakfast! That sounds appropriately British! And some tea with it, of course! . . . Who am I, you ask? Well, obviously, I am . . . er, British. Cheerio and god save the queen and all that, you fit little constabird!” And with that, she definitively hung up and handed the phone back over.

Her brother groaned aloud. “Scotland _Meter_? Really? It’s Scotland _Yard_! Everyone knows that!”

“Nuh-uh! British people use _the_ _metric_ _system_—meters, _not_ yards—and everyone knows _that_!”

“C-can we maybe just focus on going before the police show up?” Norman pleaded. “So, um, Raz? Lils? It was nice mee—”

The “On Fire” girl (Lils?) insisted, “That’s not my name! Ugh!”

“Sorry, whatever. I’ll assume it’s s-super-secret classified or not or whatever,” he continued, “The point is, it was nice meeting you and now goodbye. Have a nice life. Please make sure everyone else here gets the help they need.”

“You guys, too. Maybe we’ll see you all again sometime and you’ll let us in on the mystery. Kids by the dozens and even us here, with no idea when or how? Yep. I’d love to get to the bottom of that,” the begoggled boy (Raz?) stated.

Dipper narrowed his eyes at them. “And the mystery of which government agency you _don’t_ work for. Wink-wink.”

“Maybe we wi—”

“Stop. Talking. To the civilians. Raz. You’re just. Making it. _Worse_.”

“. . . Sorry, Lils.”

“_Civilians_, eh?” Dipper couldn’t resist repeating smugly.

But by then, his sister was laying a hand on his shoulder and pulling him away. “C’mon, Bro-Bro. We gotta go-go. And probably, like, make sure we get all of our stuff on the way—the flashlight, shovel, my grappling hook, definitely the golf cart—”

“You mean Gladys,” he corrected her.

“Sure. Why not? Let’s go, Slender Man and slim Nor-man. Time for us to exit: Stage Shack.”

{Still just chopped invisible liver . . .} Detoby sighed theatrically, floating along with them.

But Eric Knudsen, shrunk back in the shadows as much as his still unnerving stature would allow, hesitated. And the Medium thought it was strange to see someone who was still so intimidatingly tall—someone who couldn’t not loom over everyone else—seem suddenly to be so . . . small and timid . . . even afraid. Stranger still when he considered this particular someone, now practically exuding indecisive trepidation, had caused him and his friends a full week of terror (even if, yes, not on purpose, and through no real fault of his own) . . . Following the gaze of Eric Knudsen’s freshly restored eyes, the Medium saw it fell upon the most drawn and drained of all the formerly missing children, all of whom were huddled together in a group. None of them were standing—none of them, it seemed, had the strength to remain on their feet—but sat or even lay all curled into themselves upon the ground. One was Latina and might have been pretty under normal circumstances. One was an African-American boy and very obviously a huge nerd. One was maybe a goth girl, or perhaps a “semi-goth” if that’s a thing. One was slim, with black hair. One was clearly a jock and blon—

“Oh!” Norman mouthed as it dawned on him who they were: the missing children of Amity Park, those who had been held the longest and fed off of the longest by the Cursed Door . . . Little wonder they looked the worst of everyone. “How much longer could they’ve . . . l-lasted?” he wondered quietly, though certain it wouldn’t have been long. And then it dawned on Norman, too, that they were the ones Eric Knudsen had actually known in life. Not just his first (unintentional) victims, but his actual friends. And in the case of that blond jock . . .

Detoby glanced over his spectral shoulder. {What’s holding you, Bugaboo?}

Holding up a finger to him to make the “one sec” gesture, the Medium prompted Eric Knudsen, “It’s, um, n-_not_ too late, y’know. To say goodbye to them.”

“{But . . . just lllook at them. W-wouldn’t even know . . . I’mmm here . . . And lllllook at m-me . . . They wouldn’t rrrrecog-nize me, either . . .}” Eric Knudsen said forlornly. His voice inflected with shame, he added, “{Buh . . . Besides, it’sss my fff-fault they’re like this and I’m lllllike this n-now . . . Hhhow could I ev-en . . . sp-speak to them after . . . after all I’ve d-done?}”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Norman stated quietly and matter-of-factly. “It was the Cursed Door’s. They’ll understand that.”

“{I . . . I . . . N-no, I just cuh-can’t . . .}”

“Guys?” Dipper called back. “We gotta go! Kinda _now_, y’know?”

“Are you sure?” the Medium asked gently. “Now might be the absolute last chance you ever get. What about . . . the blond guy? Your c-crush? You don’t have anything you w-want to say to him?”

For a long moment, Eric Knudsen gazed longingly at the back of Dash Baxter. Then, resignedly, he shook his head. “{Yyyeah, lots of th-things . . . But no point. I’m d-dead now. I don’t b-belong here . . . in the s-sssame place as him any-mmmore . . . I nnnneed to let go of him. Of them . . . And thu-they need me to llll-let them let go of mmmme.}”

Norman wasn’t sure what to think, let alone what to say, after that. Nor what to feel.

Never looking back, Eric Knudsen turned and walked after the twins.

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .


	26. Chapter 26

There was a sound like a sudden rush of wind and a door being thrown open, then a brief vibration ran throughout the whole cave. It was not that it trembled this time … more like it juddered ever so slightly, or perhaps more like it settled back into its proper and comfortable position. Either way, though, the Multibear felt it. Instantly, in fact, and that with the keen awareness of an adept Medium. All eight heads looked up from the iPad (and the third game of Angry Birds—only the third, and he had just barely launched it, too—since he had sat himself down to wait until his own little pocket dimension reattached itself either to the physical or spiritual plane again). All eight heads sniffed at the air.

“We have a mouth to our cave again, bear heads. And outside, things smell . . . they do not smell different from when the leech trapped us in here . . .” the alpha-head hazarded with a trace of hope. “Perhaps not much time has passed since then?” And, carefully setting his iPad to the side, he heaved himself upright onto his many legs and lumbered towards the restored entrance to his home.

Outside, there was a dazzling canopy of stars—no trace of fog lingering in the air—vaulting over the Multibear’s lookout on the peak of Mount Immovable (poetically speaking; more literally speaking, about four fifths of the way up the face of Mount Immovable). The night was clear, quiet, even serene. The only thing that seemed even slightly amiss was that there were absolutely zero lights shining in the town far below.

“Odd . . .”

But then, suddenly, he could distantly feel the electricity that came surging back through the town’s power lines. The outage was over. Streetlamps, traffic lights, porches, windows; they flickered back on again more or less at once.

“. . . Well, how about that? Things seem to be back to normal . . . And undisturbed, too . . .”

All eight heads sniffed again at the air. It had the same autumnal tang upon it as the day when the leech had appeared and trapped him . . . And all the stars overhead corresponded to the same time of the year . . . Ergo, he had not been trapped for technically longer than forever! To verify his inference, he lumbered back into his cave and glanced at the date and time display on the iPad. Both had updated once reconnected to this reality and its internet, confirming that not even a week had passed (even if, from his perspective, it had barely been the length of time necessary to play two games of Angry Birds).

“If we’re back now . . . that must mean it has been defeated! The town has been un-leeched!” the alpha-head deduced incredulously. “The Children! The Warrior and the Medium and the Visionary actually managed to destroy it all on their own!”

With a growling and roaring and hollering din that echoed through the cave, the other heads cheered elatedly.

But the alpha-head barked out, “Bear heads, we must—SILENCE, BEAR HEADS!” Once silence had been restored, he continued, “We must not be complacent! We must scry the truth!” Rushing back out onto the mountain slope, he then commanded, “Focus with me, bear heads. Focus all your minds upon the town below! Sense out the leech! Sense out all life energies down below!”

And, ten minutes later, he collapsed. Each of the eight sets of temples were rubbed to alleviate the headaches which such intense concentration had inflicted. But each of the eight heads was smiling, too, for they were certain now.

“Truly gone . . . The leech is gone and dozens of lost souls have been rescued . . . The Children, they did it. They truly did it, and then some . . .” With a contented sigh, the alpha-head admitted, “I was wrong about them; they are stronger already than I would have ever dared believe . . . I must see them and speak with them about what has transpired. But . . . tomorrow. They must no doubt be tired from whatever brave feats they did to achieve such a great thing. And, though they are the Children . . . still, they are only children; they will need their rest.”

Gently, the wind caressed the face of Mount Immovable, and the Multibear breathed it in.

Eventually, the alpha-head declared, “Come, bear heads. To the summit, so that the spirits may speak to us and catch us up on what we missed. It seems to have been a lot.”

****

“I’m starting to think . . . she must not be anywhere _in_ Gravity Falls,” Missus Northwest had said to her husband while sitting sleeplessly in a designer dressing gown (out of which she had not changed in over thirty-six hours). This had been in the Northwest estate’s smaller but homier parlor while a fire crackled low in the hearth. “Wouldn’t we have found some trace of her by now? We’ve had hundreds of people scouring the valley nonstop ever since she disappeared. Five days, without any trace? Not one? The kidnapper must have taken her elsewhere . . .”

“I’m starting to think we won’t find her at all,” Mister Northwest had deliberately not said, though he had been thinking it for hours. This was while he had been ensconced, like his wife, in a chair near the fire (and wearing the same sweat-begrimed shirt he had worn for the last thirty-six hours, too).

“Yes, and the kidnapper must just be bidding his time—waiting until we are truly desperate—before demanding a ransom for her. But, of course, he’ll be keeping her alive and safe meanwhile, wherever he’s taken her, since only a complete fool would . . . would damage a substantial investment. That’s the only sensible reason we still haven’t heard from him yet . . . Yes. The only. Sensible. Reason,” Missus Northwest had said with brittle confidence.

“. . . Where is Benjamin with my cognac-colored, rich people water? My urge to swirl something is rising. I need to do something with my swirling hand!” Mister Northwest had snapped agitatedly.

They had thought they heard him approaching down the hall, then they had thought they heard the sound of a very discreet cellphone ringing in a very discreet way and being answered very discreetly by a very discreet man. What they had heard next had simply baffled them by its unidentifiable alieness, however, for no one in history had ever heard the sound they then did. In fact, it had been the sound of a British butler breaking down into tears. Then the sound of a silver platter falling to the ground and its contents spilling and scattering over the carpet. Then another unidentifiably alien sound unheard before then throughout all of human history. This time, in fact, it had been the sound of a British butler sprinting away from a mess (but not with the intent to procure the means to clean it).

“. . . What the deuce?” Mister Northwest had eventually said before calling out, “Benjamin?! Benjamin, why the deuce am I not swirling a snifter of cognac-colored, rich people water right now?! Benjamin!” Eventually, though, he had risen to go investigate, looking out into the corridor and finding the abandoned silver platter, bottle of extravagant water, ice bucket, and tea accoutrements that had been destined for Missus Northwest spilled over and seeping into the carpet. “What in the first-world (but not the second- nor the third-word, as the only things worth seeing there are workers toiling away at underpaid jobs outsourced into their regions wherein are found laxer environmental regulations and lower taxes) is all this?!”

And that was the scene which Benjamin now put behind him as fast as his legs would carry him. Out the front door, past the front gate, and down the front drive towards lowtown Gravity Falls (meaning every part of Gravity Falls relative to the Northwest estate, since it sat upon the highest rise in the valley). Even by butler standards, he moved with uncanny speed to where he was needed at that exact moment. Perhaps because all thoughts of decorum and dignified bearing had been unceremoniously dropped (and that in a manner not unlike a silver platter bearing extravagant drinks).

Next thing he knew, he rounded a corner, and suddenly it was like his whole being leapt for joy. His heart leapt within his old chest. Tears leapt into his old eyes. His old feet leapt forward even faster than before. And words leapt off his old tongue and lips. “Miss Pacifica! I’m here, Miss! Ol’ Benjy’s here for you now! Everything’s alright! I’m here! I’m here!”

“Benjamin!” the fourteen-year-old blonde cried out, stumbling towards him as fast as she could.

And then he was down one knee with his arms around her, and she was clinging to him with every ounce of strength she still possessed, and they were both blubbering and babbling nonsense. Eventually, though, he pulled back a bit and gently cupped her face. “Are you alright, m’girl?”

“I wanna go home, Benjamin . . .” she whimpered.

“Of course, m’girl, of course . . . But are you hurt? Did they hurt you at all?”

“I . . . No? I dunno?” she answered confusedly. “Don’t think so . . . Just wanna go home now . . .”

He nodded crisply, decades of his profession kicking in by reflex. “Very good, Miss.” And then, because he was still holding her face, he couldn’t help but remark, “Bloody hell, m’girl, you’re cold as ice right now . . .” An instant later, his suitcoat was off and draped over her shoulders. Then he picked her up and was hustling back the way he had come. “There’s a lovely fire burning in the parlor, and a chair beside it that has your name written all over it. What say we plunk you down right in front of it, Miss, once we get home, while I fetch you some tea? Should warm you up a treat. And your parents are there, too, and will be so very pleased to have you back safe and sound; they’ve been worried sick about you, they have. And . . . And myself as well, m’girl, if you’ll pardon me saying so . . .”

But the blonde did not reply. The second her head had come to rest on Benjamin’s shoulder, sleep had overtaken her.

By the time he had quick-marched them both back up the front drive, past the front gate, and in through the front door, Mister and Missus Northwest were searching and shouting frantically for him. Before answering their summons, however, he detoured to the parlor and very gently set his ward upon the chair nearest the hearth. Tenderly, he brushed the hair from her sleeping face. Then, standing up and straightening his appearance (dabbing the sweat from his face with a handkerchief, slicking his hair, tucking in his shirt, rearranging his cuffs and collar), he strode with measured briskness in the direction of all the shouting.

It was Mister Northwest, waving a walkie-talkie about in a frenzy, who saw him first. “Benjamin, there you are! Where the deuce have you been?! And where is your suitcoat?! What kind of savagery has possessed you?! Well, never mind that now, I need you to bring the car around! The police are saying there’s been a report that all the missing children have been found on Main Street, and now they’re converging on it to investigate and rescue! We need to get there right away and bring Pacifica home before she’s subjected to the indignity of police questioning on top of everything—”

“I have already taken the liberty of retrieving her, sir,” the butler interrupted him apologetically.

“You . . . W-what?” Mister Northwest gasped.

“She is sleeping in the parlor, sir. May I take the liberty of recommending, if you wish to see her now, that you do so quietly so as not to wake her? She seems exhausted by her ordeal, I must say.”

“Of . . . Of course. Yes, of course, Benjamin.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I inform the Lady of the House of her daughter’s safe return?”

“Y-yes, please do,” Mister Northwest acquiesced, weak with relief. “. . . I’m going to see her.”

“By your leave, sir, I will then take the liberty of preparing some fresh tea for the young lady, along with a packet of those shortbread cookies of which she is so fond.”

“Good. Yes, good. You always think of everything, Benjamin. Carry on, then,” Mister Northwest said distantly, already hurrying back towards the parlor.

Measuredly, the butler said to himself, “For the young lady, it would be my pleasure, sir.” And he meant it wholeheartedly.

****

A pounding and a ringing and a voice shouting loud but indistinct gibberish at the door woke both residents of #5 Black Castle Circle. Of the two, it was Melissa Florent Turley (a hardworking widow now brandishing a crowbar, and steeling herself to use it) who reached the door first.

“Ma? What’s it? What’s going on?” her son asked sleepily, emerging from his bedroom.

“I don’t know, Sammy,” she hissed warningly. “But you get the police on the phone! We might have a knife-wielding maniac outs—”

Among the loud but indistinct gibberish, a few words were suddenly clear, “Sam! Samuel Turley! Sam! I need you, Sam!”

In a flash, not only was the son wide awake, but he was past his mother, unbolting all the locks, and throwing the door wide open. “Ebony?! Can it really be you?!”

“Ebon . . . You mean Kennedy Jenkins?!” Melissa Florent Turley asked disbelievingly. “But I thought he/she was kidnapped and chopped up by an axe-wielding pedophile?!”

The former Grand Goth tumbled into the home and arms of the former Keeper of the Precepts, sobbing over and over again, “Sam . . . My Sam . . .”

Unfortunately, the Former Keeper of the Precepts had never been particularly strong, and Kennedy Jenkins (aka Ebony Ravenspath, aka the former Grand Goth, aka Her/Him) was particularly tall and lanky. As a result, both teenagers wound up tumbling together down onto the beige carpet.

“Betty White walking on hot coals!” the mother exclaimed. “Are you two alright?!” When no answer was forthcoming, she repeated, “Sammy! Kenny! Are you two alright?” And when no answer was forthcoming for the second time, the question morphed into an incredulous, “Are you two . . . making out?!”

****

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

Eric Knudsen pointed with one long, skeletal hand. “{Thu-there. Annnnd there, t-too.}”

Detoby scratched theatrically at his translucent head. {A shovel? And a portable electric light? Why did you three little troopers go into the trenches with _those_?}

“Thanks, man,” Dipper said as he reclaimed the shovel.

Meanwhile, Norman bent down to retrieve the hefty flashlight while the others kept moving on up the street. When he looked back up, he couldn’t help but notice the impossibly tall, impossibly thin figure was now merely _improbably_ tall and _improbably_ thin. Norman bit his lip uncertainly, then decided to try something. “H-hey, Eric?” he called out.

A pale face turned back in his direction, but it was no longer white like bleached bone. Rather, that face was a pale shade of a flesh color. “{Yyy-yeah?}”

“Uh . . . Do you r-remember where the leaf blower is? These guys’s uncle is gonna—”

“_Gruncle_,” Mabel corrected him automatically. “Short for ‘great uncle’. Dipper and I are his grephew and griece.”

“Right. Um. He’ll m-miss the leaf blower, won’t he? Wanna make doubly sure we get that, too.”

{A leaf blower?} the Jokergeist repeated skeptically. {Would it be too much a wheeze to guess that makes a breeze to scatter leaves? Now, if you please . . . er . . . oh, applesauce, I had something else for this . . . Bah! No matter, just explain why you brought _that_ with you, too.}

“{Um . . . Ovvv-ver here, I thin-kuh?”” Eric Knudsen hazarded, gesturing down a side street. “{Mmmaybe? I’ll g-go look for it . . .}”

Step . . . Step . . . Step . . .

{What, am I chopped invisible liver now for _you_, Bugaboo?} Detoby asked in exasperation.

“Oh, s-sorry. I was just, uh, watching for something. Anyway, Detoby,” the Medium added for the benefit of Mabel and Dipper, “the leaf blower and the flashlight were both . . . basically, w-weapons against . . . It f-feels weird to say ‘against Eric’, so I’m gonna say ‘against the Slender Man’. Because wind kept the fog back and light kept the darkness back, and he needed b-both of those to move around. And the shovel—”

“Is because shovels are the ULTIMATE melee weapons,” Dipper interjected unironically.

“Yeah. B-because that.”

{. . . I suppose that makes as much sense as everything else that’s happened tonight.}

The Medium shrugged. “They did work for a while.”

“Until they didn’t,” Mabel added cheerily.

Step. Step. Step.

Eric Knudsen returned at that moment, carrying the leaf blower in both hands because he now needed _both_ hands to actually hold it. “{Ffffound it,}” he said with a hint of pride, handing it to Dipper.

“Thanks . . .” the behatted boy said perfunctorily. But like his sister and the Medium and Detoby, he stared up in dumbfounded surprise, for he now noticed the changes that had transpired since their escape from the Cursed Door … and even in the short time it had taken to retrieve the leaf blower . . . He and his sister and Detoby were now noticing the changes that were still transpiring before their eyes . . .

“{. . . W-wwwwhat?}”

With each passing minute, all the remaining features they might recognize as the Slender Man’s had been diminishing. As had been the skeletal gauntness of his feature and the tatteredness of his suit. Degree by degree, as was now more evident than ever before, he was metamorphizing back into a form that was recognizable _only_ as the boy Eric Knudsen. Just a teenage boy. Just a human kid.

“{Shu . . . Should-dn’t we keep mmmmoving?}” he asked nervously. “{You www-want to get out before the puh . . . police arrive . . . d-don’t you?}” He even turned and walked ahead of them.

Step. Step. step.

“{Thu-there’s your grrrappling hook.}”

“Oh, uh . . . That’s really helpful of you, Eric,” Mabel thanked him, running forward to reclaim it.

step. step.

His feet ceased altogether to make physical contact with the ground.

“{I thinnn-kuh I can see that golf cart of yours . . . Here’s hhhoping it works. Be nnno fun to have to p-push it all the way home . . . Hey, you g-guys think I c-c-could take rrrride in it?}” he asked brightly. Very brightly. So brightly, it wasn’t just his tone that was shining. {I’ve always wwwanted to r-ride in a golf cart, but nev-ver got the chance.}

{Oh, kid . . .} Detoby sighed sympathetically.

“Uh . . .” Dipper looked to best friend, both because Eric Knudsen’s voice was growing too faint for his non-Medium ears to hear . . . and because he wasn’t sure how they ought to explain to Eric what was now happening to him.

Mable, for her part, looked to the taller boy in alarm because she had as much of an idea as Eric himself. “Um . . . Ghost Pants? What’s happening to him?”

{. . . Wwwwhat do you mean what’s h-happening to me?}

Swallowing thickly, the Medium turned and looked Eric Knudsen square in the face . . . A face that was still pale and gaunt, yes, and fully visible only to the Medium and Detoby, but nevertheless entirely his own face again for the first time in years. Unique . . . and fully human once again. Even fully boyish once again, in some indescribable way . . . “What’s happening . . . is you’re m-moving on now.”

Mabel gasped, her hands clapping over her mouth. Both Dipper and Detoby removed their hats in an automatic gesture of something like respect or reverence (though to whom or to what neither would have been able to say with certainty; it was just the thing to be done).

“Look down at yourself, Eric,” the Medium continued. “You see that glow? Those b-beams of shimmering light starting to come out of you? Well, that’s what it looks like. You’re . . . You’re finally free of this world.”

Eric Knudsen did. He looked down at the afterimage of his body, which—though tall and thin, though lanky and bony, and all to an above average degree—was no longer impossibly, inhumanly so; he looked like a gangly teenager (who had been ill awhile) in a suit (that was a little too big) once again. Save for the way his diaphanous skin rippled, like clear light upon clean water. Save for the way pinpricks of light were shining out of him, like a blend of starlights and spotlights. Dazzled by it all, he murmured, {. . . Wwwwwhoa. This is r-really . . . hhhappening to me?}

Mabel, for whom this was a new sight, was likewise dazzled by all the glimmering lights which shone out so purely that even she and her brother could see them. “_So_ _sparkly_!” she intoned. And even her brother and Detoby (for whom this wasn’t a completely new sight) were dazzled by it all, too.

“Yeah. I th-thought you might, now that you don’t have the . . . um, the Cursed Door giving you energy to m-manifest in this world and, like, b-blocking you in it,” the Medium explained reassuringly. “Especially with all the st-stuff you said when we left your friends back there . . . W-well, it sounded a lot like you’ve accepted your own death, so . . .”

{Wwwhat am I s’pposed to do?} Eric Knudsen asked nervously.

“Just r-relax . . . Just let it happen . . . Just let go of everyth—”

On an impulse, Mabel suddenly blared out, “Wait, Slendy! Hold on just one more sec, please?” All four boys turned and looked at her in surprise. Norman’s redoubled when she stepped up really close to him and whispered in his biggish ear. “What about, y’know . . . _Neil_? Do you wanna, like, send him a message with Slendy here?”

The Medium felt his breath catch in his chest at the idea, and he just stared at her.

“I just think, y’know . . . This could be your chance to, like, sorta say goodbye to him?” she said, her tone conveying that she considered this to be an “I’m hopeful this is helpful” kind of suggestion, but also maybe an “I’m worried this is over the line because it might not be my place” kind of suggestion. “Slendy could find him and tell him for you, and you could, like, get some closure or whatever? Maybe?”

The Medium opened his mouth to respond . . . then closed it again. He had no idea what to say—not to her, at least . . . Eventually, however, he did turn back to Eric Knudsen, cleared his throat, and stammered, “Um, c-could you do me a favor, please? When you get . . . _there_? P-please?”

{Y-yyyeah, of cour-suh.}

Taking a deep, steadying breath, and deliberately keeping his eyes focused on Eric Knudsen and Eric Knudsen alone, the Medium stated, “There’s a k-kid named Neil Downe. Somewhere, I m-mean, somewhere over there . . . on the other side. Has c-curly, bright red hair. Freckles. Is k-kinda chunky, too. About my age, but shorter. He . . . used to b-be . . .” Never looking back at the twins nor the Jokergeist, he choked out, “He used to be my best friend. Back before my family moved out here, and he . . . he . . . Back before he d-_died_. Um, ‘c-cause of a drunk driver.”

{Oh, Norman . . . You poor little palooka . . .} Detoby murmured sympathetically to himself. {Though I reckon this does explain an awful lot . . .}

Utterly thunderstruck, Dipper cast a sidelong glance at his sister. “Did you . . . You knew about this?” he mouthed at her. “How? When?”

For an answer, she merely shrugged.

“C-could you tell Neil . . .” the Medium continued hoarsely, barely holding himself together. “Could you tell him for me that I really m-miss him? And I’m n-not . . . I’m not angry or anything. Just sad because I miss him and . . . n-never got the chance to really say goodbye . . . S-so could you . . . for me—”

Eric Knudsen, now more radiant than a full moon, nodded once. {I puh-prommmmmise you . . . Curly rrrr-red hair, freck-ules, chunky and shu-shorter than you. Neil Downe. Nnnnorman Babcock mmmisses him . . . and says g-goodbye. But just for nnnow, right?} he added encouragingly.

{Absoposilutely just for now!} the Jokergeist interjected.

The Medium, for his part, could only manage to nod tightly and whisper, “Th-thank you . . .”

{Thannnn-kuh you . . . All fff-four of you . . . for s-saving me . . .} Then, to himself, Erick Knudsen, once known as “The Slender Man”, closed his eyes and sighed, {Rrrrelak-suh . . . L-let it hhhh-happen . . . Let evvv’ry-thing . . . go . . .}

Light spread from within until that’s all he was. Too bright for any of them to look upon him . . . And then, the light faded. He was gone.

In the silence that followed, Dipper shifted awkwardly from side to side. For want of something to do with his nervous hands, he crimped at his cap (which he still held in one hand). Finally, he slipped it back on, shifted the weight more comfortably of the shovel and leaf blower, cleared his throat . . . and couldn’t think of anything to say which didn’t sound insensitive, moronic, or moronically insensitive.

Mabel could, though, and it was rather simple. “C’mon, Norm-Norm . . . It’s late, and we could all use some sleep.”

Norman swiped once at each eye with the back of his hand, nodded tightly again because he did not trust himself to speak, and marched over to the nearby golf cart.

{W-well, would you look at this breezer!} the Jokergeist quipped in an attempt to cheer him up. {It’s such a big six, it’s practically a seven!} Honk. Honk. {Quite the stylish way to retire for the night!}

The Medium swallowed, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, I guess . . .”

“Do you even think it’ll start?” Mabel asked her brother as they followed close behind. “I mean, it did just kinda die on us earl—”

“_She_,” Dipper interrupted his sister emphatically. “_Gladys_ is a _she_.”

“Ugh, whatever, Bro-Bro. The point is, when we needed her earlier, she did die on us.”

Slipping behind the wheel, he countered, “Yeah, which doesn’t make any sense at all. It takes, like, only three hours to charge her fully, and I had her plugged in all day. So I’m deducing that it had something to do with, um, electrical interference from our friend or the Cursed Door or something. Either that, or reality is just such a jerk that it likes applying dumb, overused, horror movie tropes because it has a juvenile and sick sense of himor.”

“I hope so. I’m exhausted, and walking home sounds like about as much fun as a L’il Gideon birthday party.”

“Gladys’ll do us right,” Dipper asserted confidently. Then, as he laid his hand on the ignition key, he hissed under his breath, “C’mon, girl, _please_ do us right!” The golf cart started without a single hitch, and Dipper reveled in it. “Ha! Told you guys! Now let’s hop in already so we can go the heck home and go the heck to bed.”

{Smart man, that man!} the Jokergeist chorused. {Let’s stop beating our gums and start seating our bums!} Honk. Honk.

“Detoby?” the Medium asked softly. “I’m really tired right now. Could you please . . . _not_? J-just for a bit, please?”

{Of course,} the Jokergeist acquiesced without even the slightest trace of bad feelings. {For you, Bugaboo, I’ll lay off until tomorrow.}

“Thanks . . .”

{But you can expect to receive double the terrible jokes then.}

“Heh . . . Deal.”

A few minutes later, they were pulling up to a windy and brightly lit Mystery Shack.

“Looks like the power’s back on!” Dipper raised his voice to point out.

“Thank you, Professor Obvious!” his sister retorted in a shout. “Think we need to put those fans and lights away tonight?!”

“Nah, they’re not going anywhere! We’ll just turn them off for now and take care of them tomorrow morning!”

A moment later, they had parked and plugged the golf cart into her usual spot, dumping pretty much all of their defensive equipment in its back seat for tomorrow. A wide open front door greeted them, and a second after lugging it shut behind them (with a slam), so did Waddles. Squealing and squirming with relief and delight (in addition to his default level of excited love whenever Mabel returned), he practically wagged his whole piggy body.

“Oh, that’s my baby! My fat, little, squishy baby who’s a bundle of sweetness and perfection! Mama was so worried she’d never see you again, but I’m back now, and I’m never, ever gonna stop hugging and holding and cuddling you!”

“Heh. Glad to see he stayed safe,” Dipper chuckled. “Man, I forgot about everything we did around here to try and defend ourselves . . . Tomorrow is gonna fecund _suck_ with all the barricade dismantling and such we gotta do . . .” Yanking some extension cords, he turned off the barrier of lights and fans outside. Quiet returned. Then, wearily, he mused, “Guess we better turn all the lights off . . .”

“Don’t forget you owe, like, two who dollars for the swear jar!” Mabel larked.

“Well, so do you! I _heard_ you swear, too!” he countered.

“Dipper, I would _never_! How could you make such an accusation against _your own sister_?!”

Numbly, Norman got the lights in the living room. He even scooped up the Journal (which had been dropped in their confusion and their haste to escape) and handed it back to the behatted boy.

“Oh, thanks, man! Definitely not something we wanna just leave lying around,” Dipper declared as he slipped it back inside his vest. “Waaaaay too valuable for that . . . Heh! Can you even imagine what might happen if Gruncle Stan were to accidentally find it? Probably blow his mind, and then change, like, fricative _everything_ about our lives here in Gravity Falls . . .”

{Oh, come now,} Detoby scoffed. {Surely one hand-written, mysterious, little book in the hands of one mysterious, old, roadshow shyster couldn’t have that big of an impact on anything.}

“Or maybe just lead to some new attractions for bamboozling tourists . . .” Dipper concluded his train of thought. “Either way, Sis-Sis, can you stop playing with your pig long enough to help us get all the lights turned off?”

Lifting Waddles in a deliberate gesture of non-binary defiance (she could both help AND play with her pig at the same time) she replied, “I’m on it!” Off she went, marching on a quick circuit through the touristic portions of the Shack. Then, since her brother and whoosh-haired friend had already seen to the basement and home portions of the Shack by then, they all dragged themselves upstairs (hitting light switches along the way) to their room in the attic.

Norman didn’t even bother to change nor undress in any way. He just faceplanted straight onto the nearer of the two conjoined mattress.

“Ha! You okay there, buddy?” Dipper chuckled.

“Mnnnngh . . .”

“N-need some help?”

“Mnnnngh . . .”

“Alright then, let me just . . . get these for you,” Dipper said as he carefully untied and tugged off the shoes and socks of his best friend. “Heh. You’re lucky I both feel sorry for how exhausted you are and am myself also exhausted beyond belief, ‘cause you’re currently in one of the most vulnerable positions ever. Y’know, if another _tickle_ _war_ were to break out.”

“Mnnnngh . . .”

“No tickle wars tonight, Dipstick,” Mabel groaned as she tossed off her backpack and kicked off her own shoes and socks, then timbered backwards onto the other mattress.

“Yeah, not tonight,” Dipper agreed, letting his friend’s bare feet flop flat onto the mattress. After only one more moment, he was stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, and sprawled between the other two. A sigh of contentment escaped his lips. “Oh, it feels _heavenly_ to lie down . . . Hey, guys? Can you believe it? I still kinda can’t, but . . . we really _did_ _it_! Mystery Kids are _unstoppable_!”

“Mnnnngh . . .”

Mabel buried her head under a pillow to shield it from the attic’s overhead light. “You gonna get that or what, Dipstick?” she grumbled.

“Huh? Oh . . .” He looked over at the switch on the wall, so very far away . . . and realized that he no longer had even the energy to get up and flip it off. He wouldn’t be moving for a while. “. . . Nope.”

His sister grumbled. His best friend went, “Mnnnngh . . .”

But they all fell asleep in seconds after that.

Detoby shook his head and chuckled. {My, oh my . . . These kids . . .} Then, with a great effort of concentration, he manifested enough to physically flip the switch down. {Sleep well, you three. You have certainly earned a good night’s rest.}

****

As the road crested a pass and then began its descent into the mountain valley of Gravity Falls, Stan came out of the kind of silent reverie which only a troubled soul riding along a deserted highway hours after midnight can ever truly know. “Looks like the fog’s cleared up,” he noted, though probably only because he suddenly felt a need to break the silence.

Esmerelsa nodded. “It will be more easy to drive into town this way.”

“Yep . . .”

Silence.

“I could . . . I could give you the Shack’s number?” Stan suggested. “That way, you could call me from time to time?”

With pain in her eyes, Esmerelsa shook her head. “If El Cartel learns where I am, they could—how do you esay—pinch the telephone? They could listen to my conversations. Then they would know that you are important to me and where you are. It is too dangerous, mi eStanford.”

He sighed heavily. “Suppose you’re right, of course . . .”

More silence.

“Maybe instead, I could . . . I dunno. Give you the Shack’s address? Then you could at least write every once in a while—let me know you’re alive and you’re safe. It’d be easy to send a letter or postcard without ‘em findin’ out about it, wouldn’t it?” Stan reasoned aloud.

Esmerelsa’s heart skipped a beat. But she did not answer right away for she did not dare to hope that might be a possibility. Rather, her thoughts raced in and through and around that idea, looking for any obvious threats that idea might pose to their safety and security. Eventually, carefully, she hazarded, “That . . . can be possible . . . Tal vaz possible . . . Ojalá possible . . .”

“I . . . won’t ask you to promise, ‘cause I know you might not be able to keep a promise like that. Besides, I wouldn’t want . . . you to feel like you have to keep up something that can only be one-sided. Not worth the kinda pain that comes with . . . something like that,” he stated somberly, and meaning it. Turning his gaze away from her and out into the darkened woods blurring past his passenger window, he took a long moment trying to marshal himself and his composure. As if he were talking to the woods or to the window or to the dark night or even to himself—to anyone or anything but her—he stated, “But if you did write me an occasional word or two . . . Well, if you did do that, I . . . um . . . I—”

Her hand found his in the dark, and held it tight as she drove. That was enough for both of them.

Even more silence.

“Do you, er . . . You want me to help you p-pack up your stuff? Before you . . . y’know, go?”

She squeezed his hand gently. But instead of saying what she really wanted to say, she asked, “What about tus chicos? You worry for them, no? You want to esee them as esoon as possible, no?”

Guilt washed over Stan. “Oh . . . Hot Belgian Waffles, how can I keep forgettin’?! How can I be so terrible at this . . . guardian thing?! It’s like one little distraction comes along, and I forget all about ‘em! I’m . . . I’m the absolute worst man for this job . . . for them . . .”

“You know what I think? I think you are the perfect man for them,” Esmerelsa declared softly. “Because you are the man who most holds to them. Their happiness, their esafety . . . You love them. More than yourself. Even if your attention can be eseduced by my feminine beauty,” she added with mock solemnity. “But you cannot be blamed for that, mi eStanford. I’s my fault; I’m too esexy to resist.”

He chuckled, then gently squeezed her hand back. “You got that right. Sexiest woman alive.”

Still more silence.

Soon, they were pulling up to the Mystery Shack, and Stan cocked an eyebrow at what he found. “Why’re my spotlights and industrial fans out around my home?”

“Why do you even have industrial fans and espotlights at all?”

He shrugged. “Because life is crazy and unpredictable. You never know when you’ll need ‘em. And bright lights attract tourists. Also large birds and fish.”

“And the fans?”

“To blow the large birds and fish away. Can’t have ‘em botherin’ the tourists.”

Not sure what else to say, she decided to say, “. . . All appears to be well to me.”

“I’m goin’ in to check on the kids,” Stan declared. He turned back to her with pleading eyes, asking then, “Will you promise not to leave ‘til after that—not to say goodbye ‘til after I check on ‘em?”

Squeezing his hand, Esmerelsa nodded. “Por supuesto, mi eStanford. I wait. Here in the car? Inside? On the porch?” she offered, somewhat shyly.

“Heh. Inside, of course. It’s still chilly out here.”

Disengaging the ignition, she followed him to the door. “The chill is not eso bad. It kills many of the . . . What was the word again for ‘los germens’?”

“Uh . . . Oh, you mean ‘germs’, right?”

“Ah, si. _Germs_.”

The door wouldn’t open when Stan tried the knob, nor after he unlocked the knob. “Well, that’s a good sign, at least,” he murmured to himself, more relieved by that fact that he would have expected, as he unbolted it with a key. However, that relief became minor confusion when he entered and found the remains of some of the barricades which the kids had constructed in front of all the exterior doors and windows. “Hoookay . . . Not sure if this is a good sign or a bad one . . . Can you just wait here a sec, please? I’m goin’ to go check their room.”

Esmerelsa waited just until he had disappeared (grumbling about his knees) up the stairs, then strode briskly back to her car to fetch their moon and sun masks. These she carried into his bedroom. For a moment, she had to struggle against the urge to make his bed and tidy up his literally everything; however, once she had overpowered it, she removed every wad of cash from her purse (all except one, which she kept only because she knew with certainty she would need it in the very near future) and arranged them neatly on top of his pillow with the masks on top of them. Next, and also from her purse, she extracted a notebook and pen, wrote a neat little note on one page which read, “Para los chicos.” She ripped it out of the notebook so cleanly it might as well have been cut with precision scissors, and left it beside the cash underneath the masks.

Finally, she wrote a second message on a second page, which she ripped out and then folded into a small square that could be (and was) concealed in the palm of her hand. Having thus prepared herself for the final . . . Well, having thus prepared herself, she returned to wait at the base of the stairs.

Meanwhile, up in the attic, Gruncle Stan knocked lightly on the door to the twins’ bedroom. When there was no response, he forced himself to breathe normally. He forced himself not to panic. After all, it was past four o’clock in the morning; of course they wouldn’t be—shouldn’t be—awake now. So he called out in the gruff rumble that his voice became whenever he tried to speak all soft and gentle, “Hey, kids? It’s me; I’m back. You in here?” When there was still no response, he continued to force himself to breathe normally. He continued to force himself not to panic. After all, if they hadn’t heard him knocking, of course they wouldn’t hear him practically whispering from the other side of the door. So he quietly turned the knob, then called (in the same tone of voice) through the crack in the doorway, “I’m just comin’ in to check on you, okay? Don’t . . . Don’t freak out or nothin’, okay, kids?”

When he finally saw the kids—safe asleep and sound asleep, and not in any way in danger, no, not at all, not even a little—he actually had to steady himself against the wall for a minute; the relief that coursed through him was so powerful that his knees almost buckled beneath him. He even worried briefly he might have a heart attack right then and there, and wasn’t sure whether he was more afraid that they’d sleep right through him dying . . . or that his dying would wake them up.

In the end, however, Stan’s pulse and his breathing and his equilibrium all returned to normal. Looking at the kids, he smiled the kind of wide, buffoonish smile that parent-figures sometimes make when they watch their kids. Mabel curled up around that pig of hers. Dipper partially sprawled over and using for a pillow that friend of his with the unusual hair. “What’s his name again? Norbert? Norgay? Norton? Norjack? Something like that, anyway . . . ‘Paintbrush’ will do, I guess.” Then it occurred to him that Dipper and Paintbrush were basically snuggling together as they slept. “. . . Meh, okay. Like puppies. Whatever,” he decided, unfazed by it. And then it occurred to him that all of the kids had fallen asleep without a blanket. “. . . Gah. Little knuckleheads,” he muttered, very much fazed by it, before carefully spreading one over Mabel and her pig, another one over Dipper and his friend.

That was how he left them, tiptoeing out the door. Then back down the stairs to Esmerelsa, who asked him, “They are well, tus chicos? eSafe? eSleeping?”

“Like little (or at least like teenage) angels,” he answered, nigh on beatific. “Guess I was worried for nothin’ after all,” he added sheepishly. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Oh, mi eStanford . . .” she replied in a tone of voice that conveyed complete understanding—that conveyed no apologies were necessary. She went to him and put her arms around him.

He put his arms around her. Hoarsely, he whispered in her ear, “I’m goin’ to miss you. So much. Already do miss you.”

“We’ll always have blintzes and Bogota, mi eStanford.”

“True . . . Here’s looking at you, chicita.”

Her hands trailed across his back to his side and down to his waist, as if attempting to memorize the contours of his body in one final caress. Looking up at him, she whispered, “Kiss me . . . Kiss me like you kissed me before we estarted our escape from Bogotá . . . Kiss me as if it were the last time . . .”

“. . . It is the last time, isn’t it?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

“. . . Si.”

“Then, Esmerelsa, I’d rather kiss you a different way than we kissed in Bogota. I’d rather . . . rather kiss you like _this_ . . .”

And he bent down and kissed her like they were in Gravity Falls—in the middle of Oregon, practically in the middle of nowhere. Like they were in his home well after four o’clock in the morning of an exhausting and exhilarating night of passion and terror. Like they were at the end of an unexpected but wonderful whirlwind of a week full of rekindled romance. Like they were granting and accepting closure for three decades worth of painful what-ifs and might-have-beens. Like they were letting go of newfound hopes and dreams for a happy future together. Like they were holding on for as long as they possibly could before they had to finally say adieu. Like they were in love, still, and had never stopped nor would ever stop being in love.

That was how he kissed her and how she kissed him back. Because they were all of those things. Quite simply, they just were.

It ended too fast. Had it lasted until the sun burnt itself down to cinders, though, it would still have ended too fast for them. But before either of their resolves could waver, she placed her hands on his barrel chest and pushed herself back away from him. “. . . It is time, mi eStanford. I must go.”

“. . . I know.”

Out the front door and into the dark of night-becoming-morning, she walked. Out of Stan’s life (for the second time) and into the uncertainty of a solitary life always on the run, she walked.

And he watched. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched Esmerelsa walk around to her car and climb behind its wheel. “Adios, mi amor . . .” he whispered as he watched her brake lights disappear down the path back to the endless, winding, black-topped road.

Though it was chilly and dark, Stan remained where he was for a long moment, unmoving, staring in the direction she had gone. Unconsciously, his hands sought the warmth of his pockets, but found something unfamiliar in them—something somewhat hard with sharpish corners. He pulled it out and, absently, looked at it in the light spilling out from the foyer. It was a piece of folded paper, and one which he was sure he had never seen before . . . One which, he realized, she had reverse pickpocketed onto his person . . . When he unfolded it, he found it held a message written in her precise script. “Siempre te amaré, mi eStanford.”

He smiled wistfully to himself before carefully folding it back up, slipping it in his breast pocket, and going to get himself a Diet Pitt Cola from the fridge. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep for a while, anyway, so why not have a soda?

****

It might have only been a coincidence that Elaine Stritch Babcock’s consciousness recoalesced just as dawn was breaking. Or it might have been symbolic for someone somewhere for some reason. Nobody can say for certain; symbolism is all a matter of personal interpretation, after all (and actually very, very suspect—a prudent person never trusts a symbol). What can be said for certain, however, is that Elain Stritch Babcock’s consciousness did recoalesce just as dawn was breaking, and that was in the living room of her son’s family’s new house. Nothing was unusual about that, though; it was her anchor, after all—her home, the place where everyone she cared about lived. It was where she simply was whenever she wasn’t determined to be somewhere else.

Except . . . Except she could feel (in a vague and groggy sort of way—the way one feels when half of one’s mind refuses to wake up) that everyone she cared about was _not_ there . . . Perry? No, he was in bed . . . with Sandra. They were both together. Courtney? Also still in bed . . . Wasn’t it Sunday morning? And early, too? Wasn’t it sunrise? Sunrise on a Sunday? Made sense. Them being in bed made sense . . . But where was Normy? Normy was—

Dark. Cold. Fog. Terror and shouts, screams. A flashlight. A slammed door, holding the knob. Feet pounding over the ground. Wheels tearing into gravel and wet earth. A faceless thing. Swinging, striking, punching at it. Grabbing it and dragging it back, or trying to. Losing energy. Drained, so tired. Losing consciousness. Still clinging and holding it back with everything. Failing. A form less than smoke that it passed through. So tired, drained. Screams, shouts and terror. Fog. Cold. Dark.

And then . . . here, at home? Safe? But why was she here and not—

The Slender Man! {Normy?! _Normy_!} Elaine spun in the air above the living room, no longer merely recoalesced, no longer merely conscious, but awake and terrified. She shot through the ceiling and walls to his room in a blind panic, even though she knew he wasn’t there, and looked around in reflexive hope. But he wasn’t there. {_Stupid_!} she berated herself. {Of course he isn’t here! Normy dear, where are you?!}

She burst through an exterior wall and into building sunlight. Which made her stop short briefly, given pause by the lack of fog outside. The air was clear again. Birds were singing. It was almost idyllic, especially when compared to the past few days . . .

{Did they . . .?}

It didn’t matter; questions and explanations and all that could wait until _after_ she found Norman and those twin friends of his—until _after_ she knew Norman and the Twins were safe. But now, at least, she thought she knew where to look first for them. Rising above the house, she turned westward and soared above the town.

Beneath her was the Mystery Shack, and she was already shouting {Normy dear?! _Normy_ _dear_?! Are you here?!} before she had reached its roof.

That was probably why Detoby came up through the roof to shush her. {Shh! Elaine, my sweet, or you’ll wake them! Shhhh!}

{Wha—You . . . You’re alive?}

{Um . . . No?}

{Oh, you know what I mean! Come here!} And she did the best that she could to hug him despite the fact that their arms and bodies were completely incorporeal. {You . . . silly man . . . You silly, brave, foolish, courageous man . . . I thought you were gone forever, you and the other three, and all to save Norman and his friends . . .}

{Oh, Elaine—my dove, my duck, my French hen—_now_ who is the silly one?} he chided her teasingly. {You ought to know by now I’m like a bad penny; there’s no getting rid of me. Although, had it not been for your incomparable grandson and his friends, this bad penny might well have been banked for good. It was, in fact, they who saved me and everyone else.}

The ghostly grandmother took a deep breath, then let it out slowly (a gesture made purely out of habit, given her lack of actual lungs, but a gesture which still helped her to collect her thoughts). {Alright, I want to hear everything that happened. _Everything_ . . . _After_ I see him with my own eyes.}

Making a “right this way gesture”, the Jokergeist led her down through the roof into the snug darkness of the Twins’ attic bedroom. They were floating almost directly above the two mattresses and the three sleeping kids (and pig).

{Oh, thank goodness . . .} Elaine’s relief was practically palpable, even if the motion she made to smooth her grandson’s hair was not actually palpable. Had he been awake, however, he would have appreciated the grandmaternal gesture all the same. {. . . Alright, Detoby, what happened?}

{Perhaps we ought to leave the room to talk so as not to wake them up. They might be heroes, but they still need their rest. And, as good fortune would have it, the sun is rising just now. Perhaps we ought to float back up through the roof and watch it while we talk? _Together_?} he offered slyly.

She straightened up and dusted off her knees (another technically futile but indisputably helpful gesture for her). Primly, she assented, {Fine. Just don’t get any ideas about the significance of this. Because there just ain’t any. Got it, buster?}

{Narry you worry, Grandmadam; I’ve never had any ideas, not once, in my whole life.}

Elaine fought—she really did—and it was a valiant fight, to be sure. But she still lost the fight. Meaning, she still cracked: she smiled, then she laughed

To his eternal credit, Detoby did not gloat over his victory. Rather, like a gentleman both true and gracious (which he was at heart), he bowed her through the figurative door. Meaning, back up through the ceiling.

There, floating just above the roof of the Mystery Shack, in a position as if they were seated with their legs dangling over its edge, they were level with the treeline. An unobstructed view stretched out, east, before them all the way to the mountains. An unobstructed view of the sun rising over the town. Their eyes were on it as Detoby told her everything that had happened to him since the night before. {Honestly, my honeyed Elaine, that is the hardest part for me to comprehend. Only twenty-four hours? If even that? It felt like an eternity . . .} He told her of the missing children and the way the Slender Man seemed to shepherd them about into groups so they would play (though they never did), and the voice that grindingly wore down the resistance of everyone trapped in that gray waste until he alone was left with any semblance of self. At least until the three Mystery Kids arrived and saved him with the power of friendship. He told her of the Kids’ madcap ideas to hold hands and use “sloppy magic” stickers, and how that actually worked to save the Slender Man—just a ghost boy named Eric Knudsen—too. Which, in turn, saved all of the other missing children. He told her of how the voice in the gray waste, the cause of all the weird events and disappearances in town (and in many other towns), was actually the fault of the Cursed Door and not Eric Knudsen, who then (with the Kids’ help—especially Mabel’s and Eric’s) repaid its evil by ripping it off its hinges once everyone had escaped back into the real word. {I reckon that killed it . . . Though I must confess I’m not sure if one can kill a dimension or not,} Detoby added, before telling her of how Eric Knudsen had then passed on, and the Mystery Kids had then gone home and collapsed into bed.

Elaine shook her head. {Sounds like quite the adventure . . . I’ll have to tell you about everything they did yesterday. They tried to trap this Eric boy’s ghost with a blood magic seal, you know.}

{Ha! Did they? And did it work?}

{Yes . . . Until it didn’t. Though it seems that that may have been because of this Cursed Door attacking the seal from the outside,} she reasoned. {When that failed, I . . . I followed your example. Borrowed some energy from Normy and tried to hold him (meaning the Slender Man) off while the kids escaped. Obviously, it didn’t work. Next thing I knew, it was dawn and I was waking up at home.}

Detoby gaped at her in incredulity and admiration. {You tried to fight him? After you saw what had happened to me and the others? My fluffy bearcat, you got guts as well as claws.}

{Pff!} Elaine snorted. {You’re the one with guts. You did it first, with no idea what would happen and at the risk of all us being angry with you, if that’s what it took to save him. Me? I just did what came naturally, being that Normy _is_ my grandson and all. Protecting him is only instinct.}

With a goofy smile, Detoby turned to look back at the horizon and the bright sun which had finally risen above its jagged rim. Softly, he then asked, {May I hold your hand, milady?}

{I think that might be literally impossible} she replied, but in a tone of voice that might actually have been flirtatious.

{Then what about metaphorically? Can I metaphorically hold your hand, milady?}

{Oh . . . I _suppose_ there’s no harm in that,} she relented with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh, holding out her incorporeal hand between them. {But only for a _little_ while. Got it, buster?}

{Elaine, you’ve just made me the happiest man adead!} And, beaming like a carefree idiot, he reached out his own hand and positioned it as though he were holding hers.

And she couldn’t help smiling, either; the Jokergeist’s good cheer was just that infectious. It was after a long beat of contented silence that either of them next spoke. She asked, {So . . . it’s over, then? All of this . . . craziness?}

{I reckon so, my sweet. I really do reckon it’s finally over.}


	27. Chapter 27

But, of course, the craziness was not entirely over. The craziness was never entirely over in Gravity Falls, Oregon.

For example, over at the Sweet Tooth at that very moment, the owner was starting her day much as she always did: whipping up a few artisanal confections for the front display case, cleaning then restocking shelves and dispensers and soft-serve makers with retailed brands while those confections set or baked, and chatting amiably all the while to the building’s previous owner. And yet, the Deceased Dentist’s Spirit, for once, did not really mind her familiarities. Perhaps this was because he was simply too drained from his ordeal beyond the Cursed Door only hours prior to muster up any resentment at this sugary seductress simply for existing and daring to be apparently happy despite her toothsome sins; perhaps it was because, after his lonely ordeal, company of any kind—even from the most loathsome of taffy-toting temptresses—was a welcome balm to his soul . . . and it certainly didn’t hurt that she always acted genuinely pleased at the prospect of his presence (after all, everybody likes feeling liked). But either way, for a strange change, he was now finding it comfortably uplifting that she continued to refer to him as “Pinky” and continued to tell him her thoughts and plans about anything and everything . . .

Then an oven timer went off, and she bustled to the back of the building to tend to her wares. Floating torpidly near the ceiling, Bertram Pincus did not follow, but rather let himself doze as ghosts do. Fading into a state of near unconsciousness, his mind permeating the whole space like an idle dream . . . Until, that is, she returned with a bunch of raucously colored balloons (birthday balloons, specifically) and one freshly decorated cake in the shape of a giant tooth; it had eight candles upon it and words spelled out in outrageously bright frosting.

{Happy Anniversary Doctor Bertram Pincus?} he read aloud in bewilderment.

“Can you believe it, Pinky?” she chattered animatedly. “It’s already been eight whole years since we started our partnership together! And I can’t imagine a better—heh!—silent partner than you. Really, I mean that . . . You wouldn’t believe how comforting it is to always have somebody who listens. Only wish I could do the same for you some time . . . I’d try using a ouija board, buuuuut I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t approve of that.”

{Too right that my wrath would be kindled to see a Devil’s Telegraph under my roof.}

“Anyway, I figured that to celebrate, I should make a cake and give away a free piece to all of our customers today. Only wish you could taste it, too . . .”

{I, taste of the tooth-decaying fleshpots of eat-gypt?! Er, I mean, Egypt. Confound it, I’ve been spending far too much time around that heretical jester . . .} Then with a sigh, he conceded, {And yet . . . I suppose it is the thought that counts. And since I can only practice charity in my thoughts, I may as well grant you the charity of assuming you meant this gesture kindly.}

“Anyway anyway, would you care to do the honors?” she offered brightly, lighting the candles.

{What childish nonsense. And sacrilegious, observing a non-Holy Day. The Apostle Paul would be appalled . . . Confound it, another inadvertent pun!} Bertram Pincus lamented to himself.

“C’mon, Pinky, it’ll be fun!” she urged him.

{Fun is iniquitous by nature.}

“Better hurry before the candles burn too low, and we get wax all over the cake.”

{I hope they burn so low that the whole cake bursts into flame, and that thence the fire spreads to purge this travesty of a shop of its oral depravity.}

“. . . Please do it for me, Pinky?” she requested hopefully. “I wanna share this with you.”

{. . . Oh, fine.} Drifting over, he manifested the energy necessary to snuff all of the eight candles in one motion. It took all of his reserves—he knew he wouldn’t be able to manifest again for hours, maybe even not for days—but he still did it, anyway.

“Yay! You’re an absolute sweetheart, Pinky!” she larked delightedly. “_My_ sweetheart!”

And though Bertram Pincus, Deceased Dentist’s Spirit and a former minister of Gravity Falls, wanted to be peevish at her for guilting (or perhaps tempting) him into such godless frivolity, the truth was he just couldn’t feel negatively about anything on that sunny morning. Perhaps it was because that he was just happy to exist and to have some cheery company after his ordeal beyond the Cursed Door; perhaps it was that, deep down, he had come to actually like her (despite her being the most shameless of sweetwalkers the town had ever known), and felt happy (albeit grudgingly) because she was happy. Either way, this was its own special brand of craziness altogether. Especially from him.

For another example, it wasn’t until about noon that Norman finally awoke. He had slept a solid nine hours without any fretful dreams nor tossing and turning—without any trouble staying asleep at all. No restlessness, no anxiety, no insomnia. It was likely the best night’s sleep he had received in months, which was crazy for him in and of itself. What little he did remember of his dream, furthermore, involved a figure that was maybe as monolithic as Mount Immovable, maybe as miniscule as a corn chip (and possibly both at the same time, because dreams?) smiling down at him benevolently; the words “well done” might have been said or thought at him, but he just couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was just too crazy a dream to waste much ponderance on, anyway.

And, for another example, when Norman slumped downstairs in search of Dipper (er, the Twins, meaning Mabel, too, of course) and breakfast, he found them in the living room—both Twins and Waddles with bowls, spoons, milk, and boxes of cereal waiting for him to join them—in front of the TV. But not playing their recently acquired Wii; no, they were actually watching the local news.

Handing him a bowl and spoon, Mabel proudly announced, “They’re talking about us!”

“What? But I thought those t-two Spy Kids promised—”

“Not about us, per se,” Dipper clarified, passing him a box of cereal. “Just our work last night.”

Norman breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Can I get the milk, please?”

“Shh! Shandra Jimenez is back on!” Mabel squealed excitedly. “She’s my favorite TV personality and reporter! So personable and professional and pretty, and she has the best pronunciation, like, ever! Those dictionary sites should record her for how to, like, properly say wor—”

“Okay, now you shh!” her brother cut in, turning up the volume.

On screen, a Latina anchorwoman faced the camera from behind a studio desk. “Relief and joy. Those are the first sentiments that were felt early this morning as all five of our town’s missing children inexplicably returned to their homes. According to their parents, they all appear to be physically unhurt, yet seem to have no recollection of who abducted them, nor where they’ve been during their absence. Our viewers will recall that the first child to disappear has been missing since late Sunday night, while the last child has been missing since Thursday night. Authorities are baffled by this apparent amnesia (perhaps triggered by their traumatic experiences as a psychological defense mechanism) but hope it will pass now that they are safe, so that the person or persons responsible might be brought to justice.”

“Heh. Already done, thanks to the Mystery Kids!” Dipper gloated, offering a fist to his sister and his best friend for celebratory bumping.

“We’re the awesomest!” Mabel whooped.

“Go us!” Norman joined in.

“Authorities are even more baffled, however, by the unexpected reappearance of over a dozen other children who had previously disappeared from other towns across the nation starting in 2008,” Shandra Jimenez continued reporting. “Similarly, these children appear to be unharmed beyond some mild to severe malnutrition and dehydration, and also have no definitive recollection of who took them, where they’ve been all this time, how they arrived in Gravity Falls, or even of anything that has passed since their initial, respective disappearances. Happily, all have been identified, we are told. Their families are en route to be reunited with them as soon as possible.”

“Yay!” Mabel cheered enthusiastically. “Happy endings for everyone but the evil Cursed Door!”

“Boo to the Cursed Door!” Dipper whooped. “Boo, I say!”

Then, with the professionally masked glee of a reporter laying out a scoop, Sandra Jimenez said, “Most baffling of all, we have uncovered, is apparently none of the abducted children have aged since their disappearances. Even the ones who vanished back in 2008, four years ago, appear unchanged: exact same facial appearance and hair length, with no signs of growth. Simply put, they appear as young as the day they were abducted, and appear to be wearing the exact same clothing. To explain this baffling phenomenon which has transgressed both space and time, our studio secured an interview with a world-renowned specialist in time-space anomalies (and cosplayer of Syndrome from ‘The Incredibles’) who frequently appears on the Used-To-Be-About-History Channel.” Turning with the camera as panned slightly to the side, she then asked, “How do you account for this occurrence, sir? Why have the children reappeared here? Why have they not aged at all? Why do they have no memories of their abduction?”

The specialist in question took a deep breath. Then, with an emphatic gesture, he answered. “Aliens.”

“You heard it here first, folks! Thank you, Giorgio, for enlightening us. In other news—”

With a dismissive snort, Dipper turned off the TV. “Can you believe that crap? They _always_ think it’s because of Aliens, but Aliens are only responsible, like, _maybe_ one eighth of the time. If even that.”

“Yeah, Aliens got way better stuff to do than, like, mess with kids’ ages and memories and stuff. Like building pre-Iron Age monuments for humans, for example. It’s totally cray-cray,” his sister agreed. “Puts the ‘Z’ in cray-cray, even.”

“. . . So it b-becomes, um, ‘cray-crazy’?” Norman hazarded, finally pouring milk on his cereal.

“Yep, you got it, Norm-Norm.”

“Hey, nuts to the news and serious stuff. Who wants to play some Mario Kart or something?” Dipper proposed. “Dunno ‘bout you guys, but I think we’ve earned ourselves a video game day.”

“Yay! I’m gonna destroy you both ‘til you’re reduced to pedestrianism!” Mabel said excitedly.

For yet another example of continuing craziness, the Multibear actually ventured to the border between the wilds of the forest and the civilization of the town shortly after that. Meaning that he went and stood just beyond the meadow in which the Mystery Shack had been built until he could convince some less conspicuous creature than himself to go get the attention of the Warrior and the Visionary (also the Medium, if he hadn’t yet returned to his own pack’s domicile); in point of fact, it was a crow that did him this service, and that by flying over to a window and pecking the heck out of it while squawking nonstop until finally Dipper tried to shoo it away (because it was distracting him from playing Mario Kart—or, as Mabel more accurately phrased it, “from LOSING at Mario Kart, pedestrian boy!”) and, in so doing, happened to see the Multibear waving to him with three paws.

“HEY! YOU’RE OKAY! WHAT’S UP?” Dipper shouted to him across the meadow. “GOOD TO SEE YOU’RE FREE AND DOING WELL! WE WERE REALLY WORRIED WHEN YOUR CAVE DISAPPEARED!”

“UM, THANK YOU, WARRIOR! MAY WE SPEAK SOMEWHERE THAT WE WON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT OTHER HUMANS OVERHEARING? BESIDES YOUR SISTER, THE VISIONARY, I MEAN, AND YOUR FRIEND, THE MEDIUM, IF HE’S STILL IN YOUR COMPANY?” the Multibear shouted back.

“IT’S COOL, MAN! THE SHACK’S CLOSED TODAY ANYWAY, AND GRUNCLE STAN IS PASSED OUT IN BED! I THINK HIS DATE WENT REALLY LATE LAST NIGHT! MABEL, NORMAN, AND I ARE THE ONLY ONES HERE AND, LIKE, AWAKE!”

{AND ME!} Detoby added, though the behatted boy couldn’t hear him. {WHY ARE WE YELLING? AND HOWDY, MISTER MULTIBEAR!}

“YES, HELLO TO YOU, TOO, HUMAN GHOST!”

Mabel appeared at the window then. “WHO ARE YOU SHOUTING AT, BRO-BRO? OH, IT’S THE MULTIBEAR! HI, MULTIBEAR! YOU FUR IS LOOKING ESPECIALLY WELL-GROOMED AND GLOSSY TODAY!”

“WHY, THANK YOU, VISIONARY!”

“THE M-MULTIBEAR’S THERE?” Norman joined them excitedly at the window. “YOU’RE OKAY! THAT’S GREAT!”

“Oh, for the love of spiritual harmony,” the alpha-head muttered in exasperation. “CHILDREN, CAN YOU PLEASE COME JOIN ME HERE IN THE WOODS SO WE CAN SPEAK WITHOUT SHOUTING ACROSS THIS MEADOW?”

“SURE!” Mabel agreed at once. “ARE YOU HUNGRY? I’LL BRING STUFF TO MAKE SANDWICHES! DO YOU LIKE PEANUT BUTTER AND HONEY? I’M PRETTY SURE WE GOT SOME HONEY! DIPPER, DO WE GOT ANY HONEY?”

“Why are you shouting at me? I’m literally right next to you, leaning out the same window.”

“DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT! DO WE GOT ANY HONEY, OR NOT?”

“I think so. Maybe in one of the cupboards?”

“WE’LL BE RIGHT THERE! HOPEFULLY WITH SOME HONEY FOR YOUR SANDWICHES!”

Fortunately, Mabel was able to find a bottle of honey (besides the bottles of peanut butter and of raspberry jam) and a bag of bread to bring out with them for a little picnic while they talked together. And, while the three Mystery Kids (with Detoby’s occasional input) answered the Multibear’s question, “What has happened in the past week, Children? Tell me everything,” she also took charge of making and distributing sandwiches. Given that there were eleven mouths among the five of them, it kept her fairly busy.

Once all their exploits had been related, the Mutlibear fell silent (or relatively so, given that seven of his heads were making various and sundry noises: chewing, lip-smacking, licking peanut butter off the roofs of their mouths, etc.). Contemplatively, as if more to himself than to them, he intoned, “Such courage, even if reckless, to slay a leech . . . And such compassion to rescue its victims . . . Indeed, the spirits did choose well . . .”

“Chose what?” Norman asked, bemused. “And which spirits?”

“Mmm . . . Never mind, Medium. It is not important at this present time.”

“You called the Cursed Door a ‘leech’ just now. Is that what it really was?” Dipper inquired.

“After a fashion,” the alpha-head replied while three of the other heads made “sorta” noises. “Understand that our plane of existence and the spirit realm are like living entities on a cosmic scale which exist in a symbiotic relationship; both feed each other. That is why we Mediums are so integral,” he added with an emphatic look at Norman. “Our duty is to maintain the balanced cycle between them, and thus we maintain harmony within our own worlds.”

“So the universe is, like, one big animal? Like . . . Like a ginormous, space frog?” Mabel asked.

Everyone stared at her for a moment. “I . . . don’t understand why you’d compare it to a frog, but essentially that is the case, yes,” the Multibear affirmed at length.

“And the spirit realm is like another, ginormous space frog—one big, white froggy and one big, black froggy . . . Froggyin and Froggyang!” she continued, caught up in the joy of her metaphor. “Oh . . . Dipper, take a note: abstract art project idea of yin and yang froggies that look like galaxies. I’ll call it something like . . . ‘Ginormous Space Frogs of Life and Death’!”

“No. I’m not your note monkey,” her brother snapped indignantly. Then, back to the Multibear, “Anyway, I think I see what you mean now. Are these two planes of existence sentient? Do they, like, think and speak and want things?”

From the Multibear, there came the same response of “sorta” noises amid “After a fashion.” Explaining further, the alpha-head stated, “You must keep in mind, Warrior, that they are beyond vast. They are more than divinities, even, for a divinity is simply a great spirit, and they transcend spirituality as much as they transcend physicality. Whatever they think or speak or want is beyond comprehension. The whole life of our planet might be too short a time to encapsulate a single one of their actions.”

“Like a single cell in their ginormous, space froggy bodies!” the besweatered girl interjected.

“No, I get that (as much as anyone can get the incomprehensibly vast),” Dipper assured him. “What I mean is, I think I understand how the Cursed Door was a leech, then. It was also, like, a world—one separate, living dimension—just a very small one. Y’know, by comparison.”

“And it f-fed off this world.” Norman shuddered. “Fed, but never gave anything back in return.”

The alpha-head nodded in approval. “You understand. That is why it and its kind are ‘leeches’. They are only parasites, taking but never giving.”

Detoby bit his spectral lip. {Are there many of them?}

“It’s impossible to say how many there are since they exist somewhere outside space and time, usually, and can manifest most anywhere within either plane of existence,” the Multibear answered. “Though it is easier for them to do so in regions where the skin of this reality is thinner.”

“Like Gravity Falls in general?” Dipper asked astutely.

“Or at, like, doors with unlucky numbers?” Mabel asked just as astutely.

“Indeed, yes, to both points. This valley is a swirling nexus of energies unlike most other places on this planet. And the perception of dark misfortune that you European-influenced humans hang around a #13 makes such locations particularly penetrable,” the Multibear asserted sagaciously.

“Is that why the Cursed Door could, like, m-move around to help Eric . . . No, it’s still too weird to think of it being Eric Knudsen who abducted the children,” Norman declared staunchly. “So I’m gonna keep calling that part of him the ‘Slender Man’. Anyway, is that why the Cursed Door could move around to help the Slender Man t-take children through? Because of how w-weird Gravity Falls is?”

“Likely, yes, and likely how it was able to hold closed the entryway to my cave. Though I suspect such, um, dimensional reaching cost more energy than it normally would have been willing to expend. Else, why not simply warp from door to door before someone walks through? Why trick someone else into first opening the Cursed Door? Why empower a proxy to hunt, and why send them forth at night (when it could supplement both itself and its proxy with ambient dark energies)? Believe me when I say it is no mean feat to bend space and time; I had to rest for a solid week when first I made my cave.”

{What I’m still wondering is: Why make everyone depressed? Why feed off that emotion, instead of, say, happiness or anger or nostalgic wistfulness?} Detoby voiced aloud.

With a shrug of multiple shoulders, the Multibear replied, “Perhaps this leech simply developed a taste for depression and despair? Perhaps it was simply an unkind soul that enjoyed causing misery.”

Shaking his head, Dipper muttered, “Crazy to think anyone could enjoy that . . .”

Norman shrugged, too. “Guess we’ll never know, now that it’s dead . . . It is d-dead, right?”

“Yes, small Medium, it is,” the alpha-head assured him. “You need never fear the leech again.”

“Phew! That’s a relief,” Mabel breathed easier. “Won’t trick or hurt anyone else ever again . . . Hey, anyone else want another sandwich? Multibear, any of your eight heads still hungry?”

Yet another example: when Perry Babcock came to pick up his son later that afternoon, he was in a noticeably chipper mood (and this despite of—or perhaps specifically because of—having eaten another low-calorie-low-fat and high-fiber-high-vitamin meal prepared by his wife for lunch). He seemed to have entirely forgotten his intentions to discipline his son for his disobedient activities with his friends during the day before; he seemed to have entirely forgotten his intentions to even discuss them with his son, too. Instead, he treated his son to some frozen yogurt at the Gravity Falls mall (on conditions of the strictest secrecy) and they talked about movies they happened to _both_ like. Plus the weekend, even if his son did only give a highly redacted account of what he and his friends had done: a Columbian dinner, constructing and dismantling a fort, Mario Kart, and a picnic lunch under a tree in the good weather. Which would never have happened at all—none of it—outside of Gravity Falls. It was totally crazy, but totally welcome.

And for one more example of this particular brand of craziness, there was Gruncle Stan. Fatigue had taken him to bed for most of the day, true, but when he finally decided it was time to do something, cleaning was what he chose. Light cleaning, but cleaning all the same. Then, towards six in the evening, he suggested to the Twins (all on his own and without any prompting) that they ought to go to the diner for something to eat—ought to splurge a little, ought to do something special together as a family . . . and he informed them, as a result, that they could order whatever they wanted no matter the cost. Naturally, they chose pancakes, which they ate with Soos and the Corduroy family (who just happened to arrive a minute after they did, because, as Soos put it, “Dudes, we just barely got back from our, er, tango competition thing in Salem, ‘cause the cops wouldn’t let us leave for-ev-er. Something about, like, questions related to bomb explosions, gunshots, a fire in a room, two very glamorous and lordly people who we had no idea who were disappearing into the night, and two South American, like, assassins winding up dead? It was crazy bonkers nutso, dudes!”). They were one big, happy pretty-much-a-family sharing a meal together, and Stan discreetly (although grudgingly, when the moment of truth came) actually paid for it all with bills he peeled off from a respectably large wad of cash.

Most crazy of all, once Stan and the Twins left the diner to go back home to the Mystery Shack, he announced to the Twins that he had decided he was going to buy each of them their own cellphones the next day after school. “So y’know, we can always be in contact with each other. Y’know, if necessary. I can always get ahold of you little gremlins, and you can always get ahold of me—that sorta thing.”

“Whoa, seriously?” Mabel asked incredulously. “But you always said we don’t need cellphones, and that they’re, like, too crazy expensive to get, anyway?”

“Yeah, well . . . I guess last night changed my mind.”

Suspiciously, Dipper asked, “What’s the catch, old man?”

“The catch is shut up, Dipstick, before he changes his mind again!” his sister hissed at him.

“The catch,” Stan articulated pointedly, “is you have to say ‘thank you, Gruncle Stan, for payin’ an unreasonable amount of money to get a suspicious, little smartalek like me this sophisticated piece of telecommunications equipment’, and then always answer the phone when I call you.”

“Hmm. Sounds a reasonable enough price to pay for having my own phone,” Dipper conceded.

Stan snorted. “Crazy kids . . . What the heck am I even goin’ to do with you?”

All in all, it was a whole day of craziness. But, sometimes, craziness can be quite a good thing.

****

And that was just on Sunday. There was plenty more craziness throughout the following week. Of course, how could there not be, when the craziness was never entirely over in Gravity Falls, Oregon?

For one example, Dipper—even though he was a colossal nerd who loved academics to death—did not go to school on Monday. When he and Mabel awoke and began their morning routines (breakfasting, brushing teeth and hair, and getting dressed), he couldn’t help but notice how cheerful Mabel was; she hummed to herself throughout all her preparations, moved with a spring in her step and a bounce in her movements (she practically danced everywhere she went), and even eventually selected her funnest, flashiest accessories to wear with bright colors . . . including her favorite sweater: the magenta one with the rainbow-trailing shooting star across the chest.

“Characteristically cheerful . . .” he observed to himself. “Mabelistically cheerful, in fact . . .”

“You say something, Bro-Bro?”

“Me? Nah. Just . . . wondering about your outfit, is all.”

“Oh, here we go _again_,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. “You watch one stinking episode of ‘What Not to Wear or We’ll Publicly Mock You’, and suddenly you think you can critique my—”

“No, not because of that. Your ensemble looks perfectly fine,” he reassured her quickly. “Just . . . no black today?”

“Oh . . . Yeah, I just felt like . . . I dunno. Like I want to wear something happy, y’know?” Mabel managed, though at a loss for the right words. “Like, the goth stuff was fun and all—a really nice foray into a different kind of fashion—but I’m just not feeling that anymore. Not today, at least. Feel more like wearing something a little more . . . Mabel Classic. Feel ready for a Coco ChaMabel original again.”

And, smiling despite himself, her brother nodded. “Yeah, totally. I’m glad to hear that. You look and sound more like your old self.”

Pausing in her preparations, her gaze sunk to the ground. “You mean like myself back before Mom and Dad—”

“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry! Please don’t get upset! I didn’t mean to—”

“Dipdop, it’s alright. Really,” she promised him in a soft voice. “When I think about . . . them, yeah, I still get sad. It still h-hurts, but . . .” Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I know it prob’ly will always h-hurt a _little_ bit to think about them and w-what happened, but I get I can’t stop living my life. _We_ can’t stop living _our_ lives, you and me. We can’t let ourselves get stuck in the sadness and the hurt like Eric-Slendy did. I don’t wanna be lonely or depressed anymore, so . . . so today, I’m gonna wear some colors—ALL of the colors!—and go hang out with my friends and do silly, fun things. And even finally get my own cellphone later today, which’ll be _awesome_!”

Dipper laughed heartily at that exclamation. Then, because he was fully prepared, he went downstairs to wait. And yet, while sitting on the front steps of the Shack’s porch, he felt a sensation within himself that he would never be able to describe; it was simultaneously like a weight lifting from off his young shoulders, and like a dam opening within his young heart, and like a weariness settling into his young limbs. Relief was part of it—unburdening and unblocking him—but so was an inward collapse. He found that, suddenly, he felt so undeniably tired that he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up.

That was when Stan came out the door behind him. “You ready to go? I know we’re waitin’ on your sister, but—”

“Actually . . . I don’t think I am . . .”

Glancing down at his grephew in mild concern, Stan asked, “What’s up with you all of a sudden? You not feeling alright, or something?”

“I . . . I don’t really know . . .” Looking up at his gruncle and guardian, Dipper asked, “Would it . . . y’know, be alright if I stayed home from school? Just for today? I _promise_ I won’t fall behind.”

Reaching down, Stan placed his hand against the boy’s forehead. “Hmm. Don’t have a fever . . .”

“I’m not sick. I just . . . don’t think I can go do it . . . School I mean . . . Not _today_. Please?”

“Admittin’ you’re not actually sick, eh? Well, this is a new and crazy way to try to con your way outta goin’ to school,” Stan said with an indulgent chuckle.

“It’s not a con.” Dipper said emotionlessly.

“Heh. Sure it ain’t. Whatever it is, though, it’s ballsy enough, though, that I’m curious to see what your game is, so . . . fine. You can stay home today. But just today, got it, kid?”

Dipper nodded, “Thanks, Gruncle Stan . . .” then slumped gratefully back onto the porch.

Mabel exited the Shack then. “Ready! Let’s get—Dipper, what’s wrong?”

“Your brother’s just not feelin’ good today, pumpkin, so he’s stayin’ home for the day,” Gruncle Stan answered. “But let’s get goin’ so _you_ won’t be late, at least.”

“Dipdop?”

“I’m fine, Mabel. Just need, like, some time to myself. Y’know? Like you did for a while . . .”

“Okay, I guess . . . I’ll say ‘hi’ to Norm-Norm for you . . .”

“Be back in just a few minutes, hat gremlin,” Stan added reassuringly.

Then Dipper was alone. Lying on his back, staring up vacantly at the porch’s wood plank ceiling. Trying to comprehend the overwhelming sensation (maybe simultaneous sensations) which had flooded him all at once. But, try as he might, he couldn’t; there was just so much of it all . . . too much of it all for one fourteen-year-old boy to handle . . .

Suddenly, he couldn’t lie still. Though weary and tired, he heaved himself into a sitting position, then into a standing position. The Shack . . . instinctively, he knew it was not the right place for him to be at that time. Perhaps because, though no one else was there with him right that second, someone might randomly come along at any second thereafter (certainly, Stan would return soon); he was alone, yes, but only temporarily alone—only provisionally alone, with no guarantee he could remain so for as long as he felt he needed . . . And, at that time, he did feel he needed to be completely and securely alone, uninterrupted and undisturbed; it was the only way, he realized instinctively, that he could make sense of what he was then feeling . . . all of what he was then feeling . . .

Slowly, he walked across the meadow, then under the shady bower of the woods. It was chilly, yes, but not dark, for sunlight shone down in stray rays through the thick canopy of branches overhead. Pine twigs and pine needles cracked and crackled beneath his shoes, while birds twittered and chirped all around him; add to that, after a stretch of walking, the distant burbling of Inertia River, and it was like he was hearing nature’s soundtrack of vacuous background noise.

That was where Dipper stopped walking, where distance shielded him from the eyes of others and ambient sounds would screen him for the ears of others, too. That was where he sat and leaned against the comfortingly stable trunk of a tree, where he was truly alone with his thoughts.

“. . . What the heck’s wrong with me? I get like this just ‘cause she wore a sweater? Just ‘cause she wore a buncha bright colors, and wants to do silly, fun things again? Big deal . . . And what the heck am I even feeling right now? Happy for her? Yeah, I’m happy for her—so incredibly happy for her, and happy to have her back as Mabel . . . But then . . . Why do I feel like I could, like, just lay down and _die_? Not ‘cause of her—it can’t be ‘cause of her—so maybe it’s ‘cause . . . I dunno . . . Why’d I hafta come all the way out here, too? Hafta get away from school and the Shack and Stan and . . . people? Just people, like, in general . . . Why? So they won’t see me or hear me. But won’t see me or hear me doing what?”

Resting his head back against the trunk of the tree, he tried to focus on those questions. Being slightly less nebulous than his feelings themselves, it was at least slightly easier to contemplate them.

“. . . I’m feeling . . . sad, too. Really sad. How can I be happy _and_ sad at the same time like this? And why, if I’m not sad ‘cause of Mabel? Maybe . . . Maybe that’s why I hafta be out here? So no one’ll see me be sad? But . . . _Why_ am I sad, when Mabel’s finally moving on from . . . Oh . . . I’m s-sad ‘cause Mom and Dad are d-dead . . .”

Tears welled up in Dipper’s eyes. Wiping them away, he gazed at them—shining on his fingers—in confusion.

“N-_now_? But they’ve been . . . d-dead for _months_, and I . . . I haven’t cried for ‘em. Why n-_now_? Just ‘cause Mabel wore that one s-sweater? Just ‘cause she d-doesn’t . . . need me to . . . to b-be strong for her anymore? Heh . . . Heh heh. Haha! Moses, I’m _sooooo_ st-stupid! It’s ‘cause I can f-finally, like . . . Haven’t, not b-before now . . . _Couldn’t_! Just c-_couldn’t_ . . . ‘cause she needed me ‘til now to b-be strong for her! Then . . . s-someone always there . . . Heh! M-maybe I needed to b-be strong for myself, too . . . B-but not here . . . not now . . . not anymore . . .”

Crying in earnest now, unable to stop himself, Dipper could barely keep up with the tears and the snot running down his face. But he didn’t waste time trying to stem the flow; he already knew that he wouldn’t be able to, for the dam within his young heart had been opened, and every emotion which he had pent up and bottled down until now was draining out. And such a relief it was to let the façade fall away—to just let himself finally feel his own grief—and not have to expend all the emotional energy it had taken to hold it all together inside of him.

“M-Mom! Dad! I m-miss you . . . so m-much! Why’d you hafta die?! Why’d you hafta leave us?! Why’d this hafta happen to me?! I w-want . . . my Mom ‘n’ Dad back! _I want my Mom and Dad_!”

So it went for a long, long time. Until all the tears and emotions were gone, leaving nothing but hiccups and numbness behind. It felt . . . not exactly good, but it no longer felt bad—no longer felt like a dull ache he had learned to endure and ignore was lodged deep inside him. And eventually, though he never made the conscious decision to do so, he laboriously rose and dragged himself back to the Shack.

Stan was sitting on the porch, waiting, and sighed softly in relief when his grephew returned. “There you are, kid. I was startin’ to get a little worried. Where you been?”

“Sorry, just . . . needed to go for a walk. Clear my head.”

“Ah,” Stan replied, noticing and then (the height of masculine courtesy) deliberately not looking at the grubby stains on his grephew’s face. Instead, he offered, “Want a Pitt? Maybe watch some movie off the TV with me?”

“. . . Sure, yeah, that sounds good right now,” Dipper answered with weary gratitude. And when his gruncle led him to the living room, handed him the fridge-chilled can, and pulled him up beside him onto the easy chair, Dipper let him without any kind of hesitation or resistance. It felt . . . simply good to let his gruncle take care of him, to let himself lean against his gruncle and just . . . rest in that comfort . . .

While surfing through channels, Stan commented, “Been a crazy couple of months, hasn’t it?”

“Moses, yeah . . . And—fricative!—an especially crazy couple of _weeks_.”

“Well, we got through ‘em. And we’ll get through everything else that comes our way. Together. As a family. You, your sister, and me . . . Plus Soos and prob’ly Wendy, too.”

“Heh . . . Yeah, all of us . . .”

“. . . So, you okay, kid?” Stan asked, with forced lightness, at length.

“Right this second? Not really, no,” Dipper answered, too weary to be anything but candid. “But I think I will be . . . Y’know, before too long . . .”

“Good to hear, kid. Good to hear . . .”

By the time school ended, Dipper had rallied enough for the foray into town with Stan to pick up Mabel, going thence to the mall to compare the cellphone deals and the family coverage plans between the NBC Conquast and the Monoplerizon stores. And even though Stan knew nothing of the technology or standard contract legalese, he still somehow managed to emerge from the experience with a deal that swindled the telecommunicators (instead of the usual deal, where they swindled their customers). Also, a snazzy looking cellphone with a case that made it look like it was attending a black-tie event—such a perfect match for his Mister Mystery persona! Meanwhile, Mabel’s looked like a pink piglet, and had five dictionary apps with Word-of-the-Day features downloaded before they were back to the car. Finally, Dipper’s, though plain, had the most shock and water resistant case available—one that could supposedly withstand being stomped on by a respectably large man or submerged in water for hours—and he immediately downloaded a bunch of apps which might help with emergency survival (including, but not limited to: a flashlight, a GPS, a compass, a detailed map of the area, a distress signal registered with the Department of the Interior’s search and rescue database, and daily weather forecasts).

“Alright, now we each got these, let’s make sure we save each other’s numbers to speeddial. That’s still a thing, right?” Stan asked. “That way, now we can always get ahold of each other.”

“Sounds good!” Mabel larked, inputting both of theirs (and helping her gruncle to do the same).

“Annnnnd . . . Done!” Dipper declared, finishing on his end. “Just one more thing we need before we can head back to the Shack. Can you drive that way, please, Gruncle Stan?”

“Uh, sure, I guess . . .”

A moment later, they were pulling up in front of Norman’s house, and Dipper was deploying.

“Oh, yeah, good idea, Bro-Bro; gotta get Norm-Norm’s number!” Mabel concurred on his heels. “Mystery Kids gotta always be, like, contactable!”

“Don’t take long! We gotta get back in case any rubes come by for fleecin’! Huh. So this is where that Paintbrush kid lives . . .” Stan surmised while waiting in the car. “Definitely looks like his parents can afford to feed him themselves, not need to send him to mooch off of me . . .”

Norman, for his part, was surprised and delighted to find the Twins on answering the doorbell. “D-Dipper! Er, Dipper _and_ Mabel! What’s up? And you okay, man? You w-weren’t in school today, and Mabel said you were, like, s-_sick_ or something?”

“Or something, yeah,” the behatted boy waved it off. “Don’t worry about it, man. Look, we can’t stay long ‘cause of Stan, buuuuut . . . we fracking _finally_ got our own phones!”

“TADA!” Mabel produced hers.

“Th-that’s awesome!”

“Yeah,” Dipper agreed. “And now I gotta get your number saved to my contacts and speeddial. The very first one.”

Excitedly, Mabel added, “Me, too!”

“The f-_first_ one?” Norman repeated, his heart skipping a beat.

“Well, technically, the _third_ one, I guess,” Dipper conceded. “Stan and Mabel were before you, but only ‘cause they were, like, geographically convenient; we all got them together, so of course theirs were before yours. But yours is the first one that counts.”

Fighting a blush, Norman fidgeted for the behatted boy’s phone. “H-here, I’ll put it in for you. And send myself a t-text from it so I get yours.”

“What? I don’t count, too?” Mabel challenged her brother.

“C’mon, Sis-Sis, you and Stan’re family. Kinda automatic—that goes without saying, y’know?”

“N-now I’ll do yours,” Norman said hurriedly to Mabel. “Annnnnd . . . Done! Got both yours.”

“Sweet!” both Twins said in unison.

Behind them, Stan called, “Kids! We gotta go! Say ‘bye’ to Paintbrush!”

“. . . Guess I’ve had way worse nicknames,” Norman sighed.

“Heh! See you tomorrow, man!” Dipper said while Mabel said, “Bye, Norm-Norm!”

For another example of the ongoing craziness, later that week, when all three Mystery Kids were next together in Miz Atticals’ English class, she completely abandoned her prepared lesson halfway in. Even though it was about Shakespeare, who she loved to read and discuss. Even though she had already cast aside the state’s prepared syllabus for “Romeo and Juliet” (which she told her class she considered to be “an overrated piece of sappy claptrap, or ‘saptrap’—aha! aha! aha!—if you will, only still popular because of misogynistic undercurrents and overcurrents in Western society’s conception of romance” and “easily the Immortal Bard’s worst play—and that _includes_ ‘Titus Andronicus’—since even ‘Taming of the Shrew’ is better, as no one can be so daft as to confuse its misogyny for being a romantic ideal”), having instead prepared her own syllabus for “Hamlet”.

When explaining why she had made this substitution to her uninterested students, she stated, “There is more intrigue throughout the plot of this play, making it more engaging to follow, for one, and it possesses a much richer psychology through the ongoing question of if ghosts are real—”

“They are, _duh_!” Norman, Dipper, and Mabel each respectively muttered under their breath.

“—or if Prince Hamlet is merely an emotionally disturbed, Byronic, young man succumbing to depression and psychosis. Besides which, his unkind actions to Ophelia—his misogyny, whether affected or genuine—is called out. Which I, as a feminist, personally find quite refreshing in literature from then,” she soliloquyed. “And, in addition, though it pains me to resort to (ugh!) using _comic_ _books_ to engage with _real_ literature like Shakespeare’s arch-influential ‘Hamlet’, there is a graphic rendering of which I’ve procured copies for everyone. By Adam Sexton and Tintin Pantoja . . . Actually, the quality of their work is far from bad,” she admitted reluctantly, as though it was as painful as ripping out her own spleen. “And I admit I do appreciate they present the theatricality of the work in such a strikingly _visual_ way. Never forget, children, that Shakespeare is _not_ boring; it’s just meant to be _watched_, not _read_. The same is true for all plays, really, and films,” she added in an impassioned aside, handing out copies.

None of the students really knew how to respond to her monologue, nor to the fact she was passing out texts that had a bishonen blond boy clutching a skull to his chest embossed across the cover, with the words “Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the MANGA EDITION” beneath him. Everything they had heard throughout their whole lives about Shakespeare and English classes and middle and high school teachers seemed jarringly at odds with the idea of the bishie manga being distributed. And yet, there they were.

However, both Dipper and Mabel in particular were ecstatic about this turn of events, murmuring an incredulous chorus of “Yes! Yes! Yes!” under their breaths. Though for different reasons, of course: Mabel because this bishie Hamlet was a perfect blend of kawaii and dreamy; Dipper because he was going to get to read a _comic book_ (which was the next best thing to a _web_comic) as part of an honest-to-goodness academic class.

But none of the students or Miz Atticals herself had any clue for how to respond to the baritone that abruptly proclaimed (deep and rich as an ocean of honey) through the open door, “I’m surprised, Gladys-Rachel-Angeline-Miltonia-Marie-Anna-Ruth, that you have neglected to mention one of the most obvious reasons ‘Hamlet’ far surpasses ‘Romeo and Juliet’.”

Slowly—so, so slowly, as if afraid too sudden a movement might shatter so fragile, so crystalline a moment—the teacher turned towards the door. “. . . Terrence?” she whispered, more like a wish than a question.

“That is, it has the most romantic lines in all Shakespeare’s plays,” the baritone continued.

“Can it really be you? Here and now?”

“Do you recall, Gladys-Rachel-Angeline-Miltonia-Marie-Anna-Ruth, how those lines go?”

“This must be a dream . . .” Then, in a whispered lament to herself (a stage whisper, so of course everyone in the room heard her lamentation), she mused, “How cruel to have knowledge that I dream, dreading the slightest startle which may cause this dream to melt to air—to thin air, the baseless fabric of all visions—and leave not a rack behind . . . But if this insubstantial pageant is to dissolve, let me revel in it while I may, and dream awhile that I have my Terrence back again!”

“Inspired by you, I quoted those lines to you so often. Surely, you remember them?”

“Um . . . Miz Atticals?” Mabel ventured. “Pretty sure you’re not dreaming, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m real.”

The teacher stared theatrically at her, then theatrically back at the door. “I’m not dreaming?” She gulped, then declaimed, “Let me not burst in ignorance! My fate cries out, and makes each petty artery in this body as hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve. Still am I called!”

“Nope,” the baritone replied with gentle teasing in his voice. “Those aren’t the lines at all. Maybe you need a reminder? Here’s a hint: Doubt thou the stars are fire . . .”

She had to steady herself upon the nearest student’s desk. “. . . Doubt that the sun doth move.”

“Doubt truth to be a liar,” came the response.

“But never doubt I love.”

“O, dear [Gladys-Rachel-Angeline-Miltonia-Marie-Anna-Ruth], I am ill at these numbers.”

“I have not the art to reckon my groans.”

“But that I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it. I am thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to [me],” the baritone concluded, finally revealing himself by entering the room.

“Terrence!”

As the teacher ran towards the man with outstretched arms, Dipper recalled their first day in her class. While introducing herself, she had said something about having previously been at a university as an associate professor until there had some sort of scandal involving rare books, an alligator (which had invaded her home?), and a janitor which she had described as “brilliant and byronically tantalizing”. Certainly, this man looked like he would fit that bill, what with his dark and intelligent yet moody eyes, his dark, thick hair, and his darker, thicker mustache; he practically oozed Cubano machismo, literary erudition, and resentment that his literary erudition wasn’t taken as seriously as his Cubano machismo. And yet, he took the teacher into his arms with the utmost tenderness.

Eventually, stroking his face, she asked, “How can you be here, Terrence? I left Florida so far behind me.”

“I called in all my favors to find out where you had gone, my love, then I left my position to be with you.”

“But . . . But you were in line to be the Chief Custodian of all of Florida! You gave all that up?”

“Yes, indeedm I abdi-custodian-ated for you. I would rather sweep floors in this backwoods, hicksville, forgotten and misbegotten, second-rate excuse of a town and its school—”

“Hey!” half the class cried out in indignation. Meanwhile, the other half shrugged and conceded, “Yeah, it kinda is.”

“—if it means being with you, than zamboni-riding polish the finest marble floors in all of Florida without you.”

“D’awww!” all of the class said together.

“And I regret only that it took me so long to realize this. Forgive me, please, my love?”

“Oh, Terrence!” Taking his hand, Miz Atticals euphorically turned back to her class. “Students, just for today, let’s forget Shakespeare and literature and learning proper grammar and expanding your vocabulary and enhancing your rhetorical skills so you might later be more effective communicators . . . Who wants to go outside and pick wildflowers?”

“YAY!” All of the class cheered as they followed the happy couple from the room.

“Good to see even English teachers and janitors can get happy endings,” Dipper commented to his best friend.

“Th-think it has anything to do with, y’know, us solving our case?”

Shrugging, Dipper rhetoricized, “Probably not, but who can say?”

For yet one final example of the ongoing craziness, Mabel brought her knitting needles to school the next two days after that, plus a backpackful of crimson yarn. All throughout her classes she clicked and clacked indomitably away at whatever her newest sweater project was. Not even the objections of some of her teachers could deter her.

“It helps manage my ADHD,” she responded every time. “. . . Do I actually _have_ ADHD, you ask? Dunno. Prob’ly. Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Either way, I’m paying more attention like this, so . . . deal with it.” And when challenged to report back what had just barely been the subject of the lecture, she always did with flawless Mabelity: “Ancient Romans liked conquering stuff, building aqueducts, and, like, getting naked together . . . What? You were _just_ talking ‘bout how they built all those _public_ _baths_, and stuff!” or “The Pythagorean Theorem, which can be used to find out the side lengths of a triangle. Provided we, like, can break it up into right triangles, and already know two of that right triangle’s sides. But why would we know _two_ of them in the first place without knowing _the_ _third_? It makes _zero_ sense. And, like, _who_ _cares_ how long a triangle’s sides are, anyway? _Triangles_ _suck_!” or “Making fried eggs. Which is easy, by the way; you just _fry_ the _egg_. Y’know what’s _hard_ to make? An omelet shaped like someone’s face, but I can already do that, so right now can I maybe just knit please while you keep Pacifica from burning the school down?”

“Why do _I_ even have to learn this?!” Pacifica had shrilled (almost as loudly as the smoke alarm) during that one particular instance. “I’m _rich_; I’ve got, like, _servants_ to fry my eggs for me! Gah! And why do I need to learn how to sew and junk?! If I need new clothes, or if the clothes I already got get ripped, _I’ll just buy new ones_! Only _poor_ _people_ make their own clothes!”

“Well, them and _fashion_ _designers_,” Mabel had snarked, not even looking up from her project (though she did hold up both her hands long enough for Candy and Grenda to high-five her).

By the end of school that second day, she had finished the sweater, and held it up to her brother and to her friend with hair that was all whoosh (and also to Detoby) for their appraisal. “Hmm . . . Nice,” her brother declared of her work. “But why did this one take you so long? I’ve seen you crank out three in a single afternoon.”

{He’s got to be yanking our yarn with that one, right? Textile production that rapid would be impossible for a human being, wouldn’t it?}

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the Medium replied. “We’re not talking about some human being here; we’re talking about _Mabel_.”

“That was a time challenge, Bro-Bro, to test my abilities. Besides, while those three did have fashion flashin’™—like all Coco ChaMabel™ creations—they weren’t anywhere near this level of quality of craftsmabelship,” she explained with artistic and artisanal pride. “See how tightly it’s knitted? Gives lasting and reinforced durability. And the yarn I used is ultra-lightweight, and water-repellant, too. Plus, I gave it a hood, so it’s perfect for rainy weather wear. An absolute must here in Oregon!”

“Ultra-lightweight, water-repellent yarn? Where do you even get the money for stuff like this?” Dipper asked incredulously.

“I know a gal who knows a guy who knows a gal who knows a gal who may have killed a guy, and they all owe me sticker favors. Don’t worry about it,” Mabel said dismissively. “You missed the best part; look here . . . I gave it pockets—_real_ _pockets_! Two outside, two inside! Trust the girl here, you guys; _never_ take your _real_ _pockets_ for granted.”

“Sure, okay, I get that. But just the one color—just solid red?” Dipper questioned her. “Like, normally you give them patterns or designs or knit a picture into it. Not this time?”

“Nope, but there’s a reason for that.”

“I like that it buttons up. That way, it won’t be too warm in the spring or fall because you can just open it,” Norman observed.

Giving a big, brace-faced grin, she replied, “That was the idea! Well, that, and buttons are better than zippers, because zippers are _impossible_ to put on things and always get, like, locked up on fibers or your own hair, because zippers are _the Devil_. Not _of_ the Devil, mind you, but actually the _actual_ Devil. On the high throne of Heck, there sits a zipper named Satan,” she affirmed.

The Jokergeist exchanged an uncertain glance with the Medium, and eventually quipped, {Beelzipperbub.} Honk. Honk.

“And _I_ think the solid color is n-nice, too,” Norman stammered awkwardly. “Actually, that shade of red’s always been my favorite color. Just like my old hoodie s-sweater was.”

“That was also the idea,” Mabel said, more seriously now.

“Huh?”

“You said the other day, like, it got ruined, right? When we slipped through the cemetery fence running from Slendy, it got stuck. You had to pull out of it. But when you went back after everything to find it . . . it had a big rip in it, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Aw, really?” Dipper asked conciliatorily. “That sucks asymptote, man. I feel your pain; it’s like every time I gotta replace this vest, or my hat.”

“Well, that’s why I made this one for you. To replace it.” And she held it out to him. “Try it on. Really hope you like it, Norm-Norm. It’s . . . It might be a little big,” she warned him.

Delighted, Detoby clapped his spectral hands together. {Well, isn’t that something! The bearcat made a special gift just for you, Bugaboo!}

Slipping it on over his lanky arms, Norman looked himself up and down. “. . . I love it.”

“Now, you don’t have to just say that. If you don’t really like it, I won’t be offen—”

“I love it, Mabel. Thank you,” he said sincerely. “So much. N-no one’s ever made me something like this—something as n-nice and cool as this.”

{And if it is a little big, that just means you have some room to grow into it,} Detoby added.

Beaming, Mabel declared, “Guess we’re sweater buddies now! Beep boop bop!” she singsang, producing stickers from nowhere to slap on him. Including one large, star-shaped sticker over his eye.

“Where were you even keeping those?” her brother asked incredulously.

“I’ll never tell!”

“Uh . . . D-do I have to wear these stickers?” the Medium stammered, only too aware of Detoby’s guffaws.

“Yes,” Mabel decreed. “Because they make you look like a space pirate, and that’s awesome.”

“Oh. Um . . . Well, starrrrrr. Shiver me . . . space timbers, I guess? Is that a thing?”

Dipper shook his head before turning for home. “You guys are idiots.”

“B-belay such talk, um, ye scurvy Dipdog!”

“Ha! ‘Scurvy dipdog’ is pretty good. But what d’you think of ‘earthlubber’?” Mabel suggested.

“Aye, ye sunny wench, ‘tis a mighty fine insult fer a space pirate.”

“I’M LEAVING NOW, WITH OR WITHOUT YOU TWO!” Dipper shouted over his shoulder.

“Avast, ye mutinous matey! Throw out yer space anchor a sec!”

“We be pushin’ off and star-sailing after ye!”

“IF YOU BOTH DON’T STOP TALKING LIKE THAT, YOU’RE DEAD TO ME!”

****

When Friday evening rolled around, Detoby skidooed through the wall of Gravity Fall’s bar at the usual time. He tipped his hat to all the regulars floating about the ceiling, and some of them nodded or waved back. One of them even called out, {There you are, Detoby! Where were you last week? It’s not like you to miss comedy night.}

{You can say that again,} the Jokergeist replied, taking his usual spot above the front row seats. {Last week makes a grand total of two standup nights missed in all the eight decades I’ve been here, and the first one was eight decades ago. Which I still consider a respectable streak—at least as respectable as anything _I _do ever can be. But it couldn’t be helped then, and it couldn’t be helped last week, either.}

{What happened?} another ghost asked.

{Well, eight decades ago I was stabbed to death. Which was a pity because I was to be the bar’s inaugural standup. Instead, I was the inaugural toesup for the cemetery’s new extension.} With a sigh, the Jokergeist quipped, {Instead of slaying them, _I_ was the one slain.} And he honked his horn twice.

{But what about—}

{Instead of knocking them dead, _I_ was the one knocked dead.} Honk. Honk.

{But about last week—}

{Instead of giving everyone else side stitches, _I _was the one who needed stitches.} Honk. Honk.

{Yes, very funny. A tragic irony. So what happened—}

{From the mortician, you see,} Detoby elaborated. {Before setting me up for my wake viewing prior to burial.}

{Yes, we got that. What we’d like to get now is an explanation about—}

{Wait . . . _Did_ the mortician stitch me up prior to that?} Detoby wondered vaguely. {I reckon they might have just put some clean clothes on me and called it good, since I wasn’t like to object. What with being dead and all.}

{Gah! Fine. Whatever. Didn’t even want to—}

{And, of course, last week I was too preoccupied to come, what with striving to make sure everyone’s favorite NorMedium did _not_ wind up toes up himself,} he quipped offhandedly. {Which I still consider a respectable reason not to attend my favorite (and only, let’s be honest) social event.}

{Whoa! Whoa whoa _whoa_! What’s this about you saving Norman Babcock’s life?} a third ghost inquired, fully attentive.

{I wouldn’t put it quite like _that_,} Detoby humbly asserted. {First of all, because it wasn’t _just_ _me_. There was also his two living friends, Dipper and Mabel—you know, those twins who live out at the Mystery Shack. Besides them, there was Mister Robert Whitehawk (who haunts the river), Doctor Pincus (the dentist haunting the candy shop), and Grandmother Chiu (that lovely Oriental lady). And, of co—}

{“Asian”,} someone corrected him. {We’re “Asian”. Calling someone “Oriental” is racist.}

{Oh! Terribly sorry!} Detoby apologized at once. {I’ll endeavor not to say it anymore; I’m trying to be better about these sorts of things since learning about them from my friends. When did that happen, though? It was what people said back when I died. And said without malice, I believe. Why is it now considered offensive?}

The Asian ghost shrugged. {As to _when_, I don’t know. Given you died _before_ racial segregation was ruled illegal, though, it’s hardly surprising that views on race have changed. As to _why_, not really important right now. All that matters is we prefer “Asian”, and that’s reason enough.}

{Heh. Very true; that is indeed more than reason enough. Much obliged for informing me,} Detoby thanked them sincerely. {Anyway, it was the NorMedium’s two friends, us four spooky mooks, and his grandmother all working to protect him. Not _just_ me. And, second of all . . . Well, in the end, _he_ saved _us_. Well, him _and_ his two friends . . . Imagine that: the living saving the dead.}

{Well, what happened?!} the third ghost burst out.

{Oh, it’s a rather long story, full of supernatural suspense and tragic drama and light comedy and many surprise twists and heartwarming moments. I couldn’t possibly tell it before tonight’s acts begin.}

{Does it involve where that strange fog came from two weeks ago, and where it went? And where the children disappeared to? And where they and all the others came from afterwards?}

{As a matter of fact, it does. The NorMedium, his two friends, and us four spooky mooks were dragged there, actually. We had to fight our way out, and managed to bring all the children back out with us when we did.}

{Whoa! Seriously?! Whoa!}

All of that evening’s spectral spectators had their attention fixed on the Jokergeist now. Speaking for all of them, a fourth one said, {Well, let’s go outside and you can tell—}

{Go _outside_?!} Detoby repeated, scandalized. {And miss a _third_ night of standup?! I don’t know what the word “aficionado” means to _you_, but to me—}

{Uh, doesn’t mean _anything_ to me, actually.}

{Me neither,} one ghost agreed while another chimed in, {Not a clue.}

Detoby tried again. {Well, I don’t know what the word “devotee” means to you, but to me—}

{Er . . . I don’t know what that word means, either.}

{Likewise,} one ghost agreed while another chimed in, {Same here.}

For a moment, the Jokergeist was stymied. Then he simply crossed his arms and legs, as if sitting down into a chair and into a huff. {See, the point is, I am going to watch the acts. This is the highlight of my week, I’ll have you know, and I intend to fully enjoy it.}

{What about _after_?} a fifth ghost persisted. {I’d _really_ like to hear what happened!}

{Ditto!} one ghost agreed while another chimed in, {Me, too!}

{Er . . . I _suppose_ I could recount it then, after the heart-beatin’ cretins have all left and there are no more distractions. That is, if you all want . . .} Bemused, Detoby looked around at the other ghosts. {But I thought we had agreed that I’m only allowed on stage once a month.}

{We’ll make an exception. Just this once,} a sixth ghost declared. {Because I’ve been positively _living_ to find out what was going on last week. Hell, everyone in town’s got to be, too!}

{Heh! Well, as you all like it! Once the dearly preceased clear out, I’ll share what happened! But first, we need to make sure tonight’s standup gets—}

At that moment, Robert Whitehawk burst through the walls. {It hasn’t started yet, has it? I haven’t missed anything, have I?}

{Robert!} Detoby exclaimed joyously. {Good to see you! Though what are you doing _here_? Don’t you have a river to go jump in?}

Cracking a smile, Robert Whitehawk replied, {I already did that today, and figured it was time for a break to dry off. Besides which, someone told me variety is the spice of death. I figured, where better to spice things up than in the town’s only weekly variety show?}

{Golly gee, Robert, did you _actually_ make a joke?}

{I’ll admit it’s not the funniest one to ever be made here . . . but I couldn’t possibly hope to top your face.}

The Jokergeist burst out laughing, and even honked his horn on the Fisherghost’s behalf. Then, gesturing beside himself, he insisted, {Come join me, you ol’ fishhooker, and we’ll be floating above the best seats in the house! You’re going to love this! We’ll make a comedy clubber of you yet!}

{Sounds good. Just . . . please don’t ever call me a “fishhooker” ever again.}

Bertram Pincus stuck his head down through the ceiling at that moment. {Mind if I join you?}

{Bertie boy! Or should I say, “Doctor Pink SherBert”?}

{. . . Ugh,} the DDS sighed. {You just _had_ to think of that one, didn’t you? I have been _praying_ for _months_ that it would never occur to you.}

{I came up with it while sticking my head in the NorMedium’s family’s icebox!} the Jokergeist stated proudly.

{. . . Of course you did. I’m not even surprised at this point.}

{How are you doing, Bertram?} Robert Whitehawk asked affably.

{Well enough, thank you . . . Apart from acquiring a new, dubious nickname.}

Detoby laughed, then gestured to the other side of himself. {Of course you’re more than welcome to join us! Pretend to sit yourself down! But I must admit, I did not expect to ever see you here in this den of inliquoruity.}

To himself, the DDS murmured, {The LORD is testing me, but I shall prove patient.} Then aloud, he replied, {I have decided that perhaps . . . Given that the LORD made all things for our good, perhaps some levity might do my soul some good. In moderation, of course,} he quickly added.

{Haha! Of course! You came to the right place for some levity, my manister! Then afterwards, you two can help me brag about everything our favorite little NorMedium did to save the town from the Cursed Door’s . . . er, curse. Everyone here’s been pestering me to recount—Wait, where did they go?} Detoby asked, noticing that most of the other ghosts had vanished.

{They went to go tell everyone else about your story,} one of the remaining ghosts explained. {Looks like you’re going to have quite the audience. Maybe even all the ghosts in town.}

{Oh . . . That’s, er . . . _terrific_!} Detoby replied, suddenly beginning to feel a bit nervous but trying valiantly to hide it. {L-like I always say: the more, the scarier!}

{Detoby, is it just me, or are you starting to actually look _paler_?} Bertram Pincus asked.

{Oh, that? I’m just, er . . . Oh, we’d best button it!} the Jokergeist announced gratefully. And probably louder than was strictly necessary. {The entertainment is starting!}

Surprisingly, the entertainment for the night turned out to be _more_ than decent. For the first couple of hours, some standup comedians took to the stage and—though their material was sometimes a bit hacked, or their delivery a little shaky—managed to keep the crowds (living and dead) interested, engaged, and laughing. Perhaps this was because the part of the crowd which was dead grew and grew as the night progressed, drawn by the promise of a good story from Detoby about a mysterious event, and their positivity brightened the whole ambiance of the bar. Certainly, the audience had seldom been in such good spirits (nor included so many good spirits). The next couple hours after that saw a succession of performances by solo musicians or small groups; none were fantastic, but all were better than merely good. They mostly played instrumental covers of famous tunes, throwing in several of their own folk music compositions for variety, and the audience would listen . . . and tap or click or even hum along (if they knew the tune) more frequently than not. Enjoying it. Applauding it. Chattering favorably about it in between acts.

It almost felt sudden when one o’clock rolled around and the bar closed for the night; however, though it was closed, it was far from empty. The joint was filled with ghosts by then—so full that some ghosts were sticking their heads in through the walls and down through the ceiling, or had even sunk down into the floor up to their necks to allow room for everyone, while some literally stood in the doors and the windows, and also the drink counters and the chairs and the tables (including the _pool_ tables). The joint was packed with spectral figures well beyond the legal maximum occupancy—so packed that the ghost of a Fire and Life Safety Inspector was getting twitchy, even if technically nobody there was in danger of loss of life or limb. It was not at all unlikely that by one o’clock, every human ghost in town was crammed into the bar. Plus a few nonhuman ghosts, too.

Only one space had been left completely unoccupied: the bar’s small stage, over which Detoby now floated alone and rather anxiously. {W-well . . . We have _quite_ the crowd tonight, don’t we, folks?}

A cheer went up from the ghostly gathering. And, as far as a quarter mile away from the bar, living townsfolk felt an inexplicable shudder run down their backs and a ringing in their ears. “Banshees must be out tonight . . .” one of them even muttered.

The cheer did not really reassure Detoby. He clenched his rubber chicken and his bicycle horn, and stammered out, {I suppose . . . suppose you all c-came tonight to h-hear about the NorMedium. And, er, the f-fog. And what we all b-believed was a m-monster in it, taking children. And how our _brave,_ NorMedium, with his two b-brave friends and some modest help from . . . from me and Robert Whitehawk and Bertram Pincus and Grandmother Chiu and the NorMedium’s own lovely grandma . . . G-give ‘em a round of applause, folks!}

The ghosts raised another cheer. And, with it, the hairs on the back of the necks of every living townsfolk in a quarter mile radius. “. . . Damn Banshees.”

{. . . I seem to have lost my thread. Where was I? Er . . . R-right!} Detoby recalled, back on track. {How he and us but m-_mostly_ _him and his friends_—I cannot praise those three, brave kids enough—managed to solve the mystery and save all the children. Th-that’s what you all came to hear. I s-suppose. Well, I’ll t-tell you _all_ about it. I just . . . I’m just not sure where I ought to begin . . .}

From the back of the crowd, an older woman’s voice called out, {At the beginning, Fishface!}

{. . . Elaine? You’re here, too?} the Jokergeist asked in amazement.

{They told me _my_ _grandson_ is going to be publically honored. _Of course_ I’d come to hear that!} she answered, as though this were the most patently obvious thing in the world. {Besides . . . I also heard _my_ _friend_ is going to put on a show. _Of_ _course_ I’d come to support him.}

For a moment, Detoby just floated there. Mouth shut, completely at a loss for words. Eventually, he nodded. {. . . Thank you, Elaine.}

{I come, too! I come-oo!} Grandmother Chiu added, waving from beside Elaine. {Support friens very important. Very, _very_ important . . . Now you ter story, Dokkaebi-nim! We not grow _younger_-oo!}

{Amen to that,} Bertram Pincus concurred.

{Tell the story!} Rober Whitehawk shouted encouragingly.

{Story! Story! Story!} a ghost chanted, and it was quickly taken up by most everyone present. {STO-RY! STO-RY! STO-RY!}

{Okay, but . . . You all need to . . . I’m not sure if I . . . So many of you—}

{HEY!} the ghost of a Fairy shrieked, silencing everyone else. {LISTEN!}

Everyone, that is, except Elaine. {You can do this, Fishface! Just start with when you first met Norman. Tell _me_ how that happened.}

{I . . . Er, I . . .} Detoby gulped. Then, with the kind of determination befitting one with his name, he squared his shoulders, stared fixedly at her—ignoring the presence of everyone else—and launched into his narrative, {It began outside the school supply store on Main Street. You know the one, right? Facing #13—the door where we ghosts could all feel a queer chill. It was just right across from #13. That’s where I first crossed paths with the NorMedium. And I knew—I just _knew_—from the very first second I laid my jeepers peepers on him that this kid was something _special_. That’s also where he first encountered the Cursed Door. Unlucky #13 . . .}

From that beginning onward, he told it all. Everything he had seen and heard and done with Norman Babcock. And then with him and Dipper Pines. And then with both of them and Mabel Pines. Moreover, he found the telling became easier with each passing minute—more fluid, more animated—and he found he could recall all the important points which bound the story together in sequence, and all the scintillating details which made the story sparkle for his audience. Easier and easier to tell . . . Before long, he even lost all sense of _telling_ a story; rather, immersed in it, he was redeathing the story for them while they deathed it through him.

Indeed, they hung on every word. Rapt. Absorbed. Captivated.

The solitary school days spent together; the visits to other friends among the living impaired; the horror “talkies” watched most every night; Detoby touched on all these . . . The first encounter with Dipper Pines; the subsequent shenanigans with Dipper Pines (most notably the visit to the Multibear and the mountainside not-swearing); the developing friendship with Dipper Pines; Detoby touched on all these, too . . . The drama with Mabel Pines (and Dipper) over the twins’ dead and moved on parents; the emotional tension with Mabel Pines; the gradual détente, then grudging alliance, then mutual trust with Mabel Pines; Detoby recounted all these . . . The sudden apparition of the despairing fog and cold; the erratic paranoia and disparition of child after child; the diligent investigation mounted by the three Mystery Kids; Detoby recounted all these, too . . .

No one interrupted the story. No one intruded upon it, not even quietly with whispered chatter. They were too busy listening. Spellbound. Completely enthralled.

And then, the first of the revelations; the adults’ and the authorities’ failure to be of any help; the Slender Man’s terrifying pursuit; the Mystery Kids’ narrow escape, which came at the willing cost of the four ghosts’ last stand; Detoby related all of these . . . The eternity spent beyond the Cursed Door, and the defense which the Mystery Kids had undertaken in the meantime (events learned from Elaine and Norman); the second terrifying pursuit, ending with the fateful capture; the rest of the revelations, and the tragedy which the Cursed Door had wrought upon Eric Knudsen; the brilliance and the boldness of the kids in executing the eventual rescue and escape of every child the Cursed Door had ever taken; Detoby related all of these, too . . . Finally, the passing on of Eric Knudsen (a boy free and at peace) and the well-deserved rest taken by the three Mystery Kids; the mirthful return to normalcy (or at least what passed for normalcy in Gravity Falls); Detoby related all of these, too . . .

By the time the story was concluded, dawn was already beginning to tinge the eastern horizon. Hours had passed, and the audience (no longer suffering from the distractions of corporeal discomfort such as: hunger, thirst, fatigue, or sore butts from sitting too long, etc.) had hung on every word he said all through the night. They had laughed. They had sighed. They had gasped. They had cried. But mostly, they had laughed and laughed and laughed at Detoby’s witty asides and over-the-top descriptions and exact recall of the comical events and comedic dialogue through which he had deathed. His delivery and his overall performance had gotten to be in the zone, and had stayed in that zone all through the night. For hours and hours, he had made the whole room—the whole jam-packed bar—ring with laughter.

And the feeling it gave him . . . The wonderful, perfect feeling it gave him to “stand” on stage before all of them, to be the cause of their outpouring emotions—especially of their pure laughter . . . The wonderful, perfect feeling it gave him when they cheered his performance . . . cheered his name . . . Afterwards, he was figuratively floating above Cloud Nine . . . and also literally floating above the bar with his four closest compatriots in the Undiscovered Country from Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns. Smiling from ear to ear. Basking in his own sense of accomplishment. Existing in a blessed state of bliss.

With understated wryness, Elaine commended him, {That was quite the show you put on for us, Mister Determined. Quite. The. Show.}

{I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much—neither before nor after my death,} Bertram Pincus stated. {You should praise the LORD that He, through you, moved us all to such jubilant merriment, and be content knowing that you were deemed a worthy tool for His hand.}

Robert Whitehawk glanced sideways at the DDS, as if unable to believe he was being serious. {_Anyway_ . . . Good job, Detoby. And I mean that; you’re quite the storyteller. And even pretty funny when you stop _trying_ to be funny all the time.}

{Heh. Where have I heard that advice before?} the Jokergeist mock wondered, still grinning. Then, pirouetting in the air for the sheer joy of it, he threw his arms out wide. As if to embrace the stars still twinkling overhead, the fading radiance of the moon, the slowly brightening sky, and everything and everyone touched by their soft light—the whole world—all at once. He loved it all, and laughed for joy. {Great Jake’s hot socks! I can’t remember the last time I felt so spiffy-nifty, hotsy-totsy, plain ol’ _happy_! Haven’t felt this . . . this _alive_ in ages—not even back when I actually _was_ alive! I could dance! Sing! Anything! I could do _anything_! _Nothing’s_ holding me back! Nothing’s holding me _down_! I’m . . . I’m _free_! Hahahahaha! I feel like the freest man that ever did the foxtrot!}

{Oh my . . . Detoby?} Elaine interrupted, suddenly urgent.

But the Jokergeist was riding too high to notice her urgency. {What is it, m’dear, m’darling, m’ragtime-gal?}

{You’re _glowing_, Detoby.}

{I’ll say I am! So send me a kiss by wire!} he trilled, jigging in the air. {Honey, my heart’s on fire!}

{No, crazy man, you _growing_!} Grandmother Chiu shouted emphatically. {You _rery_ growing-oo!}

{Like a _lightbulb_!} Elaine added.

Confused, the Jokergeist stopped spinning and looked down at himself. His incorporeal body _was_ more luminous than it had been a few minutes ago; he _was_ glowing. More confused now, he stared down at his hands. Like rippling water, they shone. {W-what’s happening to me?}

Taking off his fishing hat, as one would do at someone’s deathbed, Robert Whitehawk declared, {You’re moving on, Detoby.}

{. . . what?}

{You are _transfigured_!} Bertram Pincus added, genuinely thinking (bless his heart) it might help explain things.

{What?}

{_You’re moving on_,} Robert Whitehawk repeated, more emphatically than before. {Like my fish, remember? I see it all the time, my brother. It looks just like this.}

{_What_?!} 

{Your time here below is done,} Bertram Pincus insisted. {The LORD is at last calling you home.}

{_WHAT_?!}

{You must have finished your business,} Elaine deduced. Her tone was . . . strange. Almost angry, almost accusatory. {The thing holding you back. Or that you were still holding yourself back for.}

{No . . . _No_!}

Suddenly, from Detoby’s heart, a ray of spectral light shot forth. Warm and bright as sunlight. Out of his front and back—his left chest and his left shoulder blade; even out of his side—his left axilla. Reflexively, he clapped his hands over the front, trying to keep the light in his chest. But smaller beams (small as pinpricks or pennies) began to shoot forth all across his form. He couldn’t hold them all in.

{I didn’t _mean_ to!} he protested frantically. To the other ghosts, to the night sky, to reality itself, to whatever gods might listen to his protest, to everyone and everything—to anyone or anything that might stop what was happening to him. {I didn’t _want_ to! I just wanted to tell the story and brag about my friends, the kids. To let all the spooky mooks know how brave they’d been! To do their story justice! _And that’s ALL I wanted_! This _can’t_ be! I’m _not_ ready! It _isn’t_ possib—}

Slap!

It would never be clear how exactly Elaine did it—not even she herself would ever understand how she did it. Theoretically, it wasn’t feasible. Or supposedly wasn’t feasible. Yet, indisputably, the fact remained that the late Elaine Stritch _did_ do it (and in front of three witnesses): she slapped a ghost. Hard, too. It actually hurt.

{. . . Ow?}

{Now you listen _here_, and you listen _good_, Tobias Determined the First,} she menaced him like only a grandmother can menace someone. {Because I will _tell you_ what “isn’t possible” right now. It is absolutely _not_ possible for you to move on without saying goodbye to my grandson. You understand? He’s already had enough close friends up and vanish on him. You will _not_ do that to him, too. I will _not_ let you do that to him. You understand?}

Detoby squared his jaw and, with his hands still over his heart, nodded the nod of a soldier ready to charge into the jaws of hell itself. {Absaposalutely I do.} Then he about-faced in midair and lunged in the direction of #23 Mist Tree Road.

But the going was not easy. Every foot forward was like diving a foot deeper underwater. Movement, which had been effortless only a scant few minutes ago—light and weightless as thinking—now was heavy and sluggish. It was exhausting. A harder labor than anything he had ever done before. In death _or_ in life. Hoofing around town as a soul-crushed muckraker in rain or sleet or scorching shine; sprinting between muddy trenches, whizzing bullets, and falling shells with a heavy-laden stretcher; shouldering stacks of newspapers that were nigh as big as his famishing, little newsy body; all of those were _nothing_ compared to the hard labor of movement here and now.

At least, movement _towards_ #23 Mist Tree Road was . . . If he were to just turn back around . . . Movement that constituted a struggle _against_ passing on to the spiritual worlds . . . If he were to just let go of the physical plain . . . Movement _away_ from where he was supposed to be and where he was supposed to _have been_ for ages . . . If he were to just accept that this wasn’t his place anymore . . .

The going would be so easy there and then . . . So easy . . .

{Don’t you give up! Don’t you _dare_ give up!}

The Jokergeist sluggishly raised his head. He felt almost dazed from exertion.

Elaine was floating just ahead of him, and she looked fierce. {If you dare give up now, I will _never_ forgive you, Tobias Determined!}

{No stop-oo! You _too_ _strong_ to stop, Dokkaebi-nim! No stop-oo!} Grandmother Chiu cheered him on, floating along beside him.

Bertram Pincus was floating on the other side. {Come on, you tooth-rotted heathen! For once in your godless existence, fight that good fight of faith! Yield not to the Devil’s sweet temptations!}

{You can do it, my brother!} Robert Whitehawk urged him, floating ahead of him, too. {I believe you can do it! I _know_ you can do it!}

And Detoby . . . he no longer felt like he was floating. His limbs were starting to feel tired—actually tired, as if physically fatigued, for the first time in eight decades. The kind of tired one feels after swimming a mile against a current . . . The kind of tired that slows one down and drags one down and makes one drown . . .

It would be so easy to stop altogether here and now . . . So easy to let himself sink and be carried away by the current to a new there and then . . . So easy, because he was so, so tired . . .

{Think of _Norman_! Don’t you give up! He _needs_ you! For his sake, don’t you give up!}

Again, the Jokergeist sluggishly raised his head. There was Elaine, but no longer looking fierce. Pleading . . . She was pleading with him. Begging. Desperate.

{_Please_, Detoby . . . For Norman . . . _Please_ . . .}

For Norman . . . For the NorMedium . . . For Bugaboo . . . For his young friend . . . For the kiddo who needed him to act strong here and now . . .

{RrraaaAAA_RRRGHGHGH_!} It was not the battle cry of some great man about to do great feat, but the defiant roar of an average man—a small and simple but _good_ man—doing something heroic. And damned be any jerk, no matter how big (even as big a jerk as reality itself), that tried to stop him. With that defiant roar, the Jokergeist lurched back into movement. Slow but sure, steady movement. {I’m on . . . my way . . . to you . . . _Bugaboo_!}

{Help him keep going! I’ll go ahead!} Elaine shouted to the other ghosts before soaring away.

Behind him, a light seemed to be growing. But he did not look back. He kept moving forward . . .

{No stop! No stop! No stop-_oo_! No stop! No stop! No stop-_oo_!} Grandmother Chiu chanted.

Behind him, sweetly familiar voices seemed to be calling his name. But he did not look back. He kept moving forward, ever forward . . .

{You’re a _Determined_ man!} the Fisherghost told him. {And a Determined man does _not_ quit!}

Behind him, a feeling of urgency pulled at him—like a gate had been opened through which he needed to finally walk, or a bridge had been lowered over which he needed to finally cross, or a ferry had docked onto which he needed to finally board. But he did not look back. He kept moving forward, ever and always forward . . .

And Bertram Pincus—bless his heart!—belted out a hymn which he no doubt thought would be inspirational, {On-wards, heath-en so-oh-oh-oldier, mar-ching as to-oo waaaaar!}

Behind him . . . No, it did not matter what was behind him, because he would not look back at it. He refused to even think about it. He ignored it and moved forward. Forward—he kept moving forward. He _had_ to keep moving forward. He could not, would not rest in peace until this last duty was acquitted. No matter how tired he grew . . . and it was true that he did grow more and more tired with each passing minute . . . but no matter how tired he grew, he found it within himself to keep taking just one more step forward (or the ghostly equivalent of a step). Because there was no choice; he _had_ to.

{Eight . . . decades . . . You waited . . . _eight_ _decades_ . . .} the Jokergeist heaved. {You can wait . . . _eight more_ _minutes_ . . . just eight more minutes . . . _please_ . . .}

{Don’t quit now, my brother! Come on! We’ve just reached Mist Tree Road! Just a little further!}

{You armost there! You armost there-oo!} Grandmother Chiu encouraged him. Pointing ahead, she said excitedly, {See-oo? There my house! There! There-oo! Norman’s just past it! No stop-oo!}

{We’re at that little park! One more leap of faith across the street—just one more effort—and all is done!}

Then asphalt was no longer beneath him, but concrete and grass. Sidewalk blocks and a lawn. Sluggishly, Detoby raised his head a third time, and there was the house. He felt like, had he still a body, he might have toppled sideways in exhaustion. But it didn’t matter anymore. There was the house. Norman’s house.

{You made it!} Robert Whitehawk congratulated him. {You _made_ it!}

{Heh . . . H-hahaha! I did!}

Beaming Grandmother Chiu declared, {You strong man! Very, very strong-oo! You cross from North to South—no one stop you, not Kim Jong-Anyone—if you want-oo!}

Steepling his hands, Bertram Pincus quietly intoned, {We thank Thee, O LORD, that in Thy most bountiful mercy Thou didst see fit to prove me wrong—}

The door jerked open all of a sudden and, still wearing pajamas, the boy Medium stumbled out into the morning crepuscule. He hadn’t even put on his slippers, nor did he bother to pull the door shut behind him; there was no time left for such trivialities. “Detoby?!” he called out in a bleary panic.

{Here . . . I’m right here, Norman . . .}

Tottering to a halt, the Medium looked up at him. There was intense emotion in his blue eyes, though which one it was would be impossible to say. Perhaps no word exists to express concisely how he felt—to capture the churning blend of feelings within him at that moment. Falteringly, he said, “Grandma, she . . . she told me . . . You f-finished your business? You’re . . . m-moving on?”

{. . . I reckon so,} Detoby replied heavily. {I’m sorry, Bugaboo; I didn’t mean to.}

“N-no . . . It’s alright. I’m . . . I’m h-_happy_ for you,” Norman insisted bravely.

Behind him, his ghostly grandmother nodded at the other three. {Let’s . . . give them a moment.} And, by silent accord, they did. They all withdrew a short distance away. To keep a last vigil.

What surprised the Jokergeist most in that moment was, despite how exhausted he felt, he still had the energy to feel awkward. What could he possibly say? There was so much—too much, in fact . . . Where should he begin? How could he possibly say it all?

But Norman, with his knack for finding the words most needing to be heard, helped him along. “You, uh, made a roomful of people l-laugh again, right? D-didn’t you tell me, back when we first met, that was your . . . your unfinished business?”

{Golly, you remembered that?} Detoby softly marveled. But then he chuckled, {Ah, listen to me bray like a jackass. Of course _you_ did. If anyone could—}

“How was it? Was it as g-good as you remembered?”

{Heh . . . It was even _better_ than I remembered. Beyond compare to anything I have ever felt. And now I feel more . . . more _light_hearted than I have in my whole existence!} the Jokergeist quipped, uncupping his hands from his chest to let a beam of light shine forth. {As you can plainly see.}

“H-ha!” Norman half-laughed. “T-tell me about it. I’d l-like to hear how it was.”

{The joint was packed—just _packed_. Crammed as full as the Kaiser’s sausage,} Detoby explained with building animation. {And it _rang_ with laughter when I quipped and capered. Not once. Not twice. Not even _thrice_. It was _again_ _and_ _again_! But I tell you, Bugaboo, that’s _not_ _all_. They did _more_ than laugh. They sighed and cried and gasped and clapped! They hung on my every word! And . . . they _loved_ it—loved the _whole_ routine . . .} he said in humble awe. Then, gratefully, he turned his gaze back to the boy before him—back to the Medium . . . back to the inspiration of what he considered his second and last great success in life or death . . . Back to his friend and his hero. {Meaning they loved hearing your story. Or our story, I suppose—yours, the twins, and mine.}

Bashfully, Norman retorted, “Um, I’m s-sure what they loved was how you t-told it. I mean—”

{Thank you, Bugaboo,} Detoby interjected in heartfelt sincerity. {All of it was _all_ thanks to you. Everything good that’s happened to me since dying . . . Absaposalutely _everything_ . . . All thanks to _you_. Which is what makes it so hard, knowing I have to . . . have to leave now. I will well and truly miss you, Bugaboo. I don’t think . . . I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you.}

Throat constricted, Norman managed to nod and choke out, “S-same . . .” Then he thrust a hand forward and said, “It’s been a . . . a real . . . pleasure knowing you, Detoby. F-fun and funny.”

With a widening grin, the Jokergeist extended his own hand, conjuring his spectral horn from the ether as he did. Playing along, the Medium wrapped his hand around the air where it was and, together, they mimed shaking hands three times. The Jokergeist squeezed on all three, of course.

Honk-honk-honk!

Norman couldn’t help but laugh—“Ha!”—even though he (and the other ghosts) had seen it coming from _ten_ _miles_ away. But that laugh . . . Like after the first crack in a dam, his brave composure crumbled entirely. The laugh led to a sob, and the sob led . . .

Putting his arms in the air around the boy—as close he could come to hugging or holding him—Detoby gently whispered, {Hey . . . Hey now . . . I know it hurts. I know it’s hard. I know . . . I know . . . But don’t forget, this isn’t “goodbye forever”. You can’t get rid of me that easily. No, not by a long shot. I’m just moving on, and so I _will_ be seeing you again . . . Though, uh, not _too_ soon, I hope.}

“W-wish it _could_ _be_ . . . Really gonna m-_miss you_ . . .”

Detoby pulled away to arm’s length, taking a hands-on-shoulders position while looking the boy full in the face. Between them, the space shone with the spectral light pouring out from Detoby’s heart. Bright and warm, like all his sentiments for the boy. Illuminating them both, as if from within. {Aw now, there, there, Bugbear . . . Don’t you be talking like that. When we next meet up, you’re going to tell me all about all your exciting adventures! You’ve got a long and happy life ahead of you, so no more tears.}

“Hah . . .” the Medium laughed bitterly. “J-just like my life ‘til _now_’s been r-_real_ happy . . .”

{. . . It may have been rough up until now, but yet to come for you in life is more and better than you can imagine. I just _know_ it,} Detoby comforted him with more conviction than he had ever felt. Conviction such as had moved ancient prophets and oracles. {Because if there’s one thing—_even_ _just_ _one_, _single_, _solitary_ _thing_—my time with you has taught me . . . it’s that you, Norman Babcock . . . Um, hey, Elaine? What’s his middle name?} he called out.

{Arthur!} she shouted back.

{Thank you!} Then refocusing on the boy, Detoby resumed with quiet ardor, {There _is_ one thing my time with you has taught me . . . And it’s that you, Norman Arthur Babcock, are meant for _happiness_. To have it . . . and to give it to others. In _fecund_ abundance!} he in-joked with an emphatic grin.

“H-ha! Do . . . D’you really th-think so?”

{I _know_ so, Bugabeau. _I’m deathing proof of it_. And so are those other spooky mooks behind me, and all the delight that filled the bar while I told our story . . . And the twins are _living_ proof, along with all the children you three saved together—all the children who are now back home with their families thanks to you three. _I know so_,} he repeated, unshakable, as the luminescence emanating from his form grew so bright that not a shadow was left upon their faces. {And one day, the rest of the world will, too.}

“When you s-say it like that . . . I c-can almost believe it, too . . .”

{You will. One day, you will. So no more tears.}

And with that, Tobias Determined knew that it was finally time; he had no business left to finish, nor any strength left to resist the inevitable. He was dead; he didn’t belong in that world. It was time . . . to move on . . . to let go . . . So he did; his hands left the boy’s shoulders, as if he had taken a step back, and drifted down to his sides.

Blinking back tears, Norman silently looked up at him. One final time.

{Well . . . Without further _adieu_, Bugaboo . . .} the Jokergeist quipped. Honk-honk. And then . . . he turned back towards the light and the sweetly familiar voices and the feeling of urgency which had been pulling at him from behind for so, so long . . . As he did, weight seemed to fall from his soul. It felt like surrendering to a great current which carries everybody from the here and now off to some other, newer there and then. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. The light within escaped his heart.

. . . And then Detoby was gone.

For a long while, Norman did not move. He did not make a sound. He just stood there, almost like a statue. It wasn’t until his grandmother eventually floated over beside him that he did, and it was to look away from her, sniff, and swipe roughly at his eyes with the back of one hand.

{Normy . . . We should get you back inside. You must be freezing.}

“What? Oh . . .” Looking down at the grass under his bare feet—damp from dew, some patches even tinged with a trace of frost—Norman realized for the first time it was cold . . . In fact, _he_ was cold. Which only made sense, he supposed; they were more than halfway into September in the mountains of Oregon, and the sun hadn’t even risen yet. Plus, he was only wearing pajamas without even his slippers. Of course the autumnal chill in the air was getting to him. “. . . Yeah, I hadn’t noticed,” he said vaguely.

{C’mon, then, Normy dear. This way.}

Shuffling numbly, he let her lead him back towards the door, which he absently pulled shut behind him. Without thinking about it, he crawled onto the couch and wrapped himself in a blanket.

{That’s right. Get yourself warmed back up. Maybe in a bit, we can go get you some cocoa, too,} his grandmother said soothingly. {And don’t you worry about the others; I told them you’d want to have some time to yourself for a while, and they totally understand. Mister Whitehawk said he’d come by again in a few hours to check on you, and Doctor Pincus said the next time you come by the candy shop, you can buy whatever you want without him sermonizing about the evils of sugar. Missus Chiu will be—}

“Grandma, why does everybody leave me?”

{Oh, Normy dear . . .} She settled into the air beside where he slumped on the couch and, acting on grandmaternal reflex, reached out to stroke his barely-believable hair. {Normy, Normy . . . Sometimes, people don’t have much choice in the matter. Life happens. Death happens. We just can’t control it, sometimes. All we can do is . . . be grateful for the time we do get to share with others when and while it happens. Enjoy that while we can, I suppose—the moment . . . and also the memories. And try to make it as enjoyable as possible for everybody else, too. Yes, all we can do is enjoy the time of our existence where and while we can, and make it enjoyable for as many people as we possibly can. Because we never know when life or death—when existence—is just going to happen to us, and force us to cut it short.}

Her grandson said nothing.

{I want you to know something, Normy dear,} Elaine stated in that matter-of-fact way that was oh so iconically her. {At the bar, when Detoby . . . um, finished his business? He fought—and I mean _fought_—to not move on until he made it back to you. It was hard for him; that much was plain to see. But he still fought with _everything_ he had, just so he could tell you how grateful he was for all the time you two shared together—to let you know how much it’d meant to him and how much he’d enjoyed it. He fought because _he didn’t want to leave you_,} she declared emphatically. {He just didn’t have a choice. Not on that matter. So he chose to have as much, as much, _as possibly much_ time with you as he could.}

Her grandson still said nothing.

{I know it’s hard to understand at a time like now, when a person hurts so much because of loss. That’s okay; that’s normal. Let yourself feel the hurt, Normy dear . . . Let yourself cry, if you need to,} she added compassionately. {Cry as much as you need to. It’ll help. Boys should cry more often, because it really _does_ help . . . It’s healthy. It’s smart. It takes strength for a person to let themself cry.}

Hoarsely, the Medium replied, “‘Mnot crying . . .”

{I know,} Elaine added hurriedly, helping him save some face. {But you can if you need to . . . And eventually, you won’t need to anymore, because all the hurt will be gone, making the memories sweet again.}

Swallowing thickly, her grandson asked, “C-can . . . Can you . . . l-leave me alone? For a little bit? P-please, Grandma?”

She nodded. {Of course, Normy dear. I’ll just . . . take a float around the block. Stretch my legs. Let me know when you need me.} Then, bending over him, she made the motion of kissing his forehead. {Love you, Normy dear.}

With that, Norman was left alone on the couch in the twilight of a pre-woken morning. The only one awake in the whole house . . . completely unseen, thus completely free to grieve the final passing of his friend, Tobias “the Jokergeist” Determined.

****

Despite being the offseason, an unexpectedly large crowd of tourists came to the Mystery Shack that Saturday morning, keeping the place and everyone who lived and/or worked there fairly busy until about lunchtime. The very last of them were purchasing the souvenirs that Gruncle Stan had somehow (possibly through some form of fay glamour or covert mind control technique) fast-talked them into buying when two more people—both teenagers—entered the Shack.

“Thanks for visiting the world famous Mystery Shack,” Wendy monotoned by rote reflex to the tourists as she rang up their souvenirs. “Tell your family. Tell your friends. Tell random strangers.” She then turned to the newcomers. “How can I help you tw—wait a sec . . . Sam? And Kenny, right?”

“_Kennedy_,” the former Grand Goth corrected her. “Though I prefer ‘Ebony’.”

“Uh, sure, Ebony. Sorry I didn’t recognize you two without all your goth makeup and stuff.”

“It’s fine, really,” the former Keeper of the Precepts assured her. “We have been receiving that reaction a lot lately. Anyway, is the Lady Mabelladonna here, by chance?”

Wendy eyed them dubiously. “You’re not gonna make trouble for her again, are you?”

“No, not at all,” Samuel Turley assured her. “We only wanted to speak with her for a moment.”

“Hmm . . . Alright, but just remember we locked you in the storage closet once before already, and we’re more than willing to do it again.”

“I maintain that such an act _cannot_ have been legal,” Ebony muttered under her/his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. ‘twas nothing at all he/she said,” Samuel Turley cut in. “Now may we please speak with the Lady Mabelladonna?”

“Yeah, sure. Just a sec, let me get her for you,” Wendy replied. And then she shouted, “MABEL!”

“COMING!” An instant later, she appeared in quite possibly the most garish sweater ever knitted by humankind. It had one bright orange sleeve with black cats and black bats on it, one bright red sleeve with pink hearts and pink cherubs on it, a bright blue back with a yellow sun sporting black sunglasses and a purple-umbrellaed tropical drink, and a bright green front with and white six-pointed snowflakes, white menorahs, and white reindeer; across the chest, it bore the bolded message, “It’s ALWAYS sweater weather if you’re NOT a COWARD”. “What’s up, Wen—oh! Hiya! What brings you two here?”

“We, um . . . That is to say . . .”

“I really like your Hawaiian shirt, by the way,” Mabel said to Samuel Turley. “It goes great with your cloak. And that pink eyeshadow definitely suits you; matches the epaulettes you added to that jacket,” she added to his companion.

“Heh. I th-thank you,” the former Keeper of the Precepts replied. “That actually is part of why we came to speak with you today. We reckoned, as the Chosen One, you ought to know.”

“Ugh, not _this_ again. Guys, I’m _not_ the Chosen—”

“The Gravity Falls Consortium has been disbanded. All thanks to you and what you taught us.”

“Wait, what?”

“Whoa,” Wendy intoned in mild surprise. “So does this mean there are, like, no more goths in Gravity Falls?”

“There still are a few fully committed ones,” the former Grand Goth asserted, “but they are _individual_ goths now, unsanctioned by any authority that would purport to rule over them. No more shall there be a hierarchy or precepts to determine who can and cannot be goth, nor dictate how goth they are allowed to be. What they wish to wear, and when and where, is solely up to them. None shall call anyone poseurs for so doing ever again.”

“They are _free_ goths, and the rest of us are . . . something else—half-goths and goth-inspired—but _equally_ _free_ and _equally individual_ in our own pursuits as they are,” Samuel Turley elaborated. “Communing with the True Darkness ourselves without any intermediary and doing as we feel is right. As you taught us, Lady Mabelladonna. We . . . we judged that it be only proper to inform you of this, and to thank you for teaching us that we may do whatever we want, so long as we do not hurt anyone.”

“Guys, like, seriously, I didn’t do anything special,” Mabel said bashfully. “All I did was smack you with an umbrella and yell at a bunch of people to leave me alone.”

“But it was exactly the kind of battering and haranguing we needed.”

Wendy cut in, “So what’s happened to your goth club type thing now that you’ve disbanded?”

“Most of us still hang out together a lot. Just now we wear more colors and listen to more bands than we did before. Plus, many of us have joined the Theater Club since we already had the shirts for it.”

“And the fancy outfits,” the former Grand Goth added. “And a penchant for drama and angst.”

“In truth, if the past week is any indication, we all seem much happier now for branching out.”

“Well, I’m glad I somehow helped you all to find a happy ending,” Mabel said magnanimously.

Both exchanged a knowing look, then a smile. “Yes,” Samuel Turley said, reaching to Ebony (AKA Kennedy, AKA her/him) and taking his/her hand. “I’d say we do seem to have found a happy ending.”

“Oh my gosh! OH! MY! GOSH!” Mabel screamed delightedly. “YOU TWO ARE _DATING_ NOW?!”

“Boyfriend and datemate,” Ebony (AKA Kennedy, AKA her/him) answered proudly. “Out on a walking date, and now going for a lunch date.”

“Whoa-ho-ho!” Wendy crowed. “Good for you two! Dating rocks!”

Meanwhile Mabel, for her part, could only squee incoherently at how cute a couple they made.

“Speaking of which . . .”

“Yes, my treasure, we should go,” Samuel Turley agreed. With a flourish of his cloak, he bowed them both out. “Fare thee well, Lady Mabelladonna. Should we never meet again, know that you have, now and forever, our eternal gratitude.”

“Yeah, uh huh, see you guys at _school_ and _around town_,” Wendy replied coolly, even as Mabel continued involuntarily to squee at the top of her lungs.

A second after they had walked out together, hand-in-hand, Dipper dashed into the gift shop. “What’s wrong?! I heard a scream!”

“THEY’RE _DATING_ AND THEY’RE SUCH A CUTE _COUPLE_, DIPPING SAUCE, I’M GONNA DIE!”

“. . . Oh. It’s not a ‘someone is dying’ scream, but one of your ‘I can’t even’ screams.” He sighed, “You _really_ need to differentiate the two somehow. I nearly had a heart attack, thinking something was attacking you in here.”

Soos came in then. “Mail’s here, Dudes. Also Norman, which you prob’ly care about way more than the mail (‘cause only old people still use non-electronic means to get in touch with each other). MISTER PINES, THERE’S SOMETHING FOR YOU IN THE MAIL! ALSO, I FINISHED FIXING THE SHED!”

“WELL, BRING IT TO ME, YA KNUCKLEHEAD! THEN I NEED YOU TO CLEAR OUT THE CHIMNEYS, SINCE WINTER IS COMIN’!”

“Hey, Norm-Norm!” Mabel chimed to the newcomer while Dipper made finger guns at him.

“H-hi, guys. What’s up?” the taller boy responded, making an effort to sound cheerful.

But it fooled neither of the Twins. “You okay, man?” Dipper asked. “You seem . . . I dunno . . .”

“Kinda down?” Mabel finished for him.

“Yeah, that. Exactly.”

“Oh, well . . .” Norman shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. Quietly, so only his fellow Mystery Kids would hear, he replied, “It’s just that Detoby . . .” His voice caught, and he had to swallow to regain his voice. “He p-passed on this morning.”

Mabel’s hands clapped over her mouth. Dipper stammered, “What? No, that’s . . . But . . . how?”

Looking away, Norman answered, “He just, y’know, f-finished his business, is all. That’s how it is. Once you finish, you p-pass on. He didn’t mean to, but d-did all the same. Made a roomful of ghosts . . . er . . . Entertained them. For hours. Made them l-laugh, and . . . For hours, y’know? What he’d b-been trying to do for, like, d-decades.”

Laying a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, Dipper softly said, “I’m sorry. That fricative sucks.”

“Y-yeah, well . . . I _am_ h-happy for him, though. He f-finally got to do what he’d always wanted. And he said it felt g-_great_ up on that stage . . .”

“And also you’re sad ‘cause you miss him, too,” Mabel asserted, just as softly. “And that’s okay. It’s _okay_ to feel sad, Norm-Norm.”

Taking a deep breath, his throat raspy, he tried to chuckle, “S-silly thing is . . . I only knew him, like, for maybe a m-_month_? Shouldn’t be . . .” But he couldn’t find the words to finish his thought. “Well, anyway, I d-don’t wanna be a downer with you guys—”

“It really _is_ okay, man,” Dipper assured him hurriedly. “You don’t have to pretend you’re feeling happy or whatever; you can just be yourself with us. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Th-thanks, but . . . right now, I don’t _want_ to be sad,” Norman declared adamantly. “I was sad all m-morning, and I’ll probably be sad about it again l-later, but right now, I wanna have _fun_ and _forget_ about it for a while. L-laugh, y’know? It’s what D-Detoby . . . what he would’ve wanted.”

“Of course, man. Of course,” Dipper agreed at once. “Whatever you want, we’ll—”

“You guys alright over there?” Wendy called from the register. “You’re making, like, sad whisper noises over there.”

“Just a kid having a bad day,” Mabel called back, covering for them all. “And you know what _always_ fixes that, right? A RANDOM DANCE PARTY FOR NO REASON!”

“But if we’re doing it to cheer Norman up, doesn’t that make it a random dance party with a very specific reason?” her brother interjected (as brothers tend to do). “I mean, logically, guys.”

Soos poked his head back into the gift shop excitedly. “Did someone say ‘random dance party for no reason’? Dude, you know I am so down to jam with you all any time!”

“That’s right! Get your beautiful hide in here, Soos! And Wendy, crank the tunes!”

Norman cut his eyes around the room, not sure if this was quite what he wanted. “Uh . . .”

Dipper gave him a playful push towards the center of the room. “Just go with it, man. It’s easier than trying to resist when things get crazy like this, trust me on that. Look, I’ll even go along with all of the insanity with you, so it won’t be embarrassing.”

“. . . K-kay,” Norman yielded, suddenly not as opposed to the idea as he had been a second ago.

“Well, okay, that’s a lie; it’ll _still_ be embarrassing as all heck,” Dipper conceded. “But at least we’ll all be equally embarrassed together.”

“YOU CAN’T BE EMBARRASSED IF YOU RELINQUISH THE ILLUSION OF DIGNITY!” Mabel shouted. “WENDY, ARE YOU GONNA CRANK THOSE TUNES, OR WHAT?!”

“Jeez, Mabes, just a sec. The thing wasn’t plugged in. I just needa . . . There!”

With the cord now in the outlet, the radio blared to life. Pre-tuned to a pop station that Wendy and everyone else in the Shack (except Stan) enjoyed, it automatically supplied them with the shallow and disjointedly meaningless yet admittedly catchy kind of music they needed for their random dance party. “—it burn down this river at every turn!”

Mabel whooped and began to swing while Soos did the robot. Wendy started doing a fast and respectably smooth jerk step.

“Oh, I _love_ this song!” Dipper exclaimed, already starting to jive. “C’mon, Norman! Just dance!” Then he began to sing spiritedly along with it, “_Old! But I’m not that old_! _Young, but I’m not that bold_!”

“Uh . . .” Nervously, the taller boy moved his arms up and down.

“Nah, man, you gotta _commit_ to looking ridiculous! Like the rest of us!”

“Excuse you, but Wendy and I are looking FLAWLESS!” Mabel retorted, doing a little pirouette.

“Pff! Right! Seriously, just go all in!” Dipper urged his friend.

Awkwardly, Norman began to swing his hips, too. “L-like this?”

“Yeah! Hahaha! Just like that!” And then, back in time with the music, he belted out, “Everything that drowns me makes me wanna fly! Lately, I been, yeah, I been losing sleep dreaming about the things that we could be!”

Norman nodded to himself. “Very relatable lyrics.”

“Huh? You say something?”

“Er, I said, ‘v-very _catchy_ lyrics’!”

Dipper grinned. “I know, right?! And the _best_ part is coming up! Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . MABEL, _now_!” And together, the Twins refrained, “Make that money and watch it burn! Sing to the river the lessons I learned! SOOS!” The handyman joined the chorus, “Make that money and watch it burn! Sing to the river the lessons I learned! WENDY!” Bouncing in time with the beat, she sang with them, “Make that money and watch it burn! Sing to the river the lessons I learned! NORMAN! EVERYBODY!”

No longer nervous—caught up in the excitement of the moment—Norman shouted out with all the others, “MAKE THAT MONEY AND WATCH IT BURN! SING TO THE RIVER THE LESSONS I LEARNED!”

“KIDS!” Stan barked through the doorway. “CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY TRYIN’ TO GET MISTY-EYED OVER THIS POSTCARD?! ALL OF YOU STOP SINGIN’ THAT _AWFUL_ SONG WITH ITS _HORRIFYIN’_ MESSAGE ABOUT BURNIN’ PERFECTLY GOOD CURRENCY! IT’S RUININ’ MY WISTFUL, BITTERSWEET MOOD!”

And they did, but only because now they couldn’t stop laughing amongst themselves at such an unexpected and surely sarcastic outburst. It was a good start to what would turn out to be another very good afternoon together for all of them, and a fine example of what their lives would be like ever after: fun, uplifting, wholesome, and happy.

True, there would be some hard times throughout the years to come—trials, tribulations, and sometimes even tears. Trauma and drama are simply inescapable parts of existence. But they had found by then (and would have it confirmed again and again) they would always have each other to rely on during those times of trouble.

Best of all, the times of trouble—of sadness and of angst—would be greatly outweighed by all the times of happiness and transcendent joy which the Pines family and their closest, dearest friends . . . Soos, Wendy, and now Norman, too . . . would share together.

****

Some of the best stories start with a tragedy, like some of the greatest gains come after a loss. Sometimes, it is only after suffering crushing loneliness that one can truly see one is not alone.


End file.
